


And The Soul Felt Its Worth

by diadema



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 2017 Winter Holiday Gift Exchange, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: While Illya recovers under Waverly's watchful eye, Gaby and Solo go back behind the Iron Curtain to save the world. A magical realism AU that includes an upcoming production of The Nutcracker, a mysterious dog, and the evolution and exploration of their gifts... and how they can harness them for the greater good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takingoffmyshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, takingoffmyshoes! I did my best Gaby Teller happy dance when I saw your prompts... Gaby & Solo friendship, Good Boss Waverly, and a magical realism AU? Perfection. I truly, truly hope that you enjoy your gift as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)
> 
> Special Thanks to Somedeepymystery for taking on the task of looking over all 78 pages of this behemoth for me. You have been a brilliant beta and so, so generous and gracious with your time, support, and encouragement. I can't thank you enough!
> 
> And thank YOU, everyone, for taking the time to read this! Your comments mean the world to me, so please let me know what you think! I'd love to hear from you. :)
> 
> If you haven't already... be sure to check out takingoffmyshoes' [Obligatory Bakery AU](https://archiveofourown.org/series/459271) and Somedeepmystery's [From 'A' to Where You'd Be](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12952665/chapters/29607987). Both are so clever and captivating and heartwarming and so worth the read!

She’s standing in the dark, but she can hear the daylight.

A sweet murmuring as the stars shuffle off to sleep. The final, lilting notes of the moon’s lullaby. The first rays of dawn singing over the horizon.

And an engine.

The mechanic feels it in her bones, deep within the depths of the snow-capped Black Forest: a jagged hum and the frantic heartbeat of its motor. She closes her eyes, concentrates on reading the car—and its occupants—as it approaches.

There is fear, she senses, cold and metallic and _slippery_ , like sweaty palms and open wounds. And something else too. Something that sets her heart racing and a vicious shudder racking down her spine.

Something screaming that things have gone terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

She severs the connection with a gasp and staggers to regain her balance, steadying herself. Against all better judgment, Gaby begins sprinting _towards_ the sound of a Trabant firing on all (two) cylinders.

Moments later, the car is swerving wildly into the treeline and screeching to a halt beside her. Solo leans over to open her door and she dives in, breathless. The Trabi roars off again, an anxious welcome reverberating around her. _I missed you too,_ she thinks, before turning her attention to her partners.

“How is he?” she shouts.

Solo jerks his chin towards the backseat: a danger zone of flailing limbs and Russian curses. “Something set him off.”

He shrugs. A hollow gesture. Even if his worry _weren’t_ leaching into the metal around them, Gaby would still be able to see right through him.

“Do you still have it?” he asks tightly.

A curt nod from the mechanic, her fingers curling around the computer disk in her pocket. _The information on it had better be worth it,_ she grouses.

Gaby hisses as an errant limb knocks into her headrest. “Pull over,” she mutters, wincing. Solo arches a brow at her.

_“Pull over!”_

The American sighs, but obeys. He grabs her arm before she gets to Illya’s door. There’s an edge to his handsome features. _Sincerity._ “Gaby.” It’s a warning. His words form ephemeral little ghosts in the frozen air. “As much as I may like to kid, Peril isn’t a machine.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she snaps, but the dread gnaws at her stomach just the same. She can fix anything that runs on electricity. A person can’t be _all_ that different...

She hopes.

While the mechanic is undeniably skilled with a wrench, it is her _other_ gifts that attract the most attention. Gaby has always had a special relationship with machines: she can heal them, uncover their histories and their memories, and, in doing so, glean insights into the people who come into contact with them.

Only this time, she’s cutting out the middleman.

Gaby takes a few deep breaths before slowly opening his door. “Illya,” she calls softly.

Her voice seems to reach him, trapped as he is in the violence of his own mind. He stops thrashing just long enough for her to slide into the seat beside him.

She nods at Solo and shuts the door. Gaby peels off her gloves, murmurs soothingly to the Russian as she waits for any hint of recognition. His scowl settles into a frown: still harsh, but more and more like the man she knows.

The mechanic sets her hand on Illya’s shoulder, anticipating the flinch that follows. She chants his name like a prayer and he stills, lifting his head to look at her.  He blinks slowly. His pupils are blown, not quite seeing her, but he begins to relax instinctively.

_So far, so good._

Gaby doubles the weight of her touch, focusing all her attention on his energy. She waits for something, _anything_ to happen, but the seconds tick by, maddeningly uneventful.

Illya’s convulsions start up again, but he locks his limbs almost painfully against himself... as if knowing on some level that he could hurt her if he didn’t.

Gaby grits her teeth, begins to transmute her discouragement into anger—forceful, insistent—and _wills_ herself to tune into him.

She almost wishes she hadn’t.

It hits her like a freight train: a kaleidoscope of energies and emotions bursting behind her eyes. The colors overwhelm, the intensity stuns. She cries out, reeling and nauseous. Illya flinches away from her touch as the door flies open.

Solo’s hand closes on her upper arm, ready to pull her out of harm’s way. She shakes her head. “Don’t,” she chokes out. “I’m fine.”

The American’s gaze is hard against hers. “Let me know,” he tells her. She nods and snatches back her arm. Already, the dizzying sensation is fading.

Gaby turns back to face Illya, keenly aware that Solo is hovering just over her shoulder. Her heart breaks at the sight.

Illya has retreated deeper into himself: jaw clamped shut, head tucked into his chest. A wall of ice that even the German winter couldn’t touch. He shrinks away from her when she reaches out to him, pressing further into the car door.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Revelation strikes her then like lightning, streaking icy-hot down her spine: much more potent than in her work with machines. Gaby shivers, thanks whatever source has gifted her the insight.

“You’re not going to hurt _me_ either,” she says.

Gaby feels the immediate shift in his presence, a slight lowering of his guard. She edges closer to him, voice rasping with concern—and a tenderness she doesn’t want to think about too closely.

_“Please, Illya.”_

Gaby gentles her hand onto his shoulder again and he exhales heavily, the tension slowly bleeding away. She begins to sift through the chaos within him until she finds something warm and wounded and _familiar_ underneath.

There’s a reason why Solo calls him the Red Peril.

For the first time, Gaby is able to see her partner as the American does… in hues of scarlet and crimson, rust and rose and ruby. She smiles at this stolen glimpse of Aura, despite the oncoming threat of a migraine.

The heat begins to spread through her palms—a good sign. Something she knows how to deal with.

Gaby strokes the Russian’s arms, coaxing away the foreign energies. She tames the kaleidoscope into something calm and uniform and feels Illya relaxing beneath her. He is still curled in on himself, but his grip isn’t nearly as tight.

She breathes into the thrumming in her palms: the heat now rocketing towards an inferno. Stars are exploding at the edges of her vision.

“Solo,” she barks. “I need the transceiver.”

“I already called for medical—”

“I need to put this _somewhere_.” She glares through the double vision, sending bolts of irritation at both Solo’s she sees. “It’s either the transceiver or the car.”

The Trabi hums in relief as the American chooses the former. _Don’t worry,_ Gaby murmurs. _I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you._

She siphons off the excess energy, sighing as her palms cool to their normal temperature and her head begins to clear. Gaby shrugs out of her jacket, cursing at the stinging chill that dives immediately under her skin.

She wraps the transceiver into the heavy fabric and tosses it unceremoniously aside. She’ll figure out what to do with it later.

Right now, though, Gaby needs to focus on Illya.

His chest is heaving from exertion, but his breaths are slowly evening out. He is weakened, more than she has ever seen him, but his expression is no longer contorted by madness and suffering.

Her eyes rove over his face with much more intensity than a coworker should merit. A large, cool hand covers her own. It seems to scorch her, lighting her nerves on fire and setting off a dark fluttering in her chest.

“Gaby,” he breathes.

Their eyes meet and there is Illya, _her_ Illya staring back at her. He blinks heavily, eyes drifting shut as he surrenders at last to the exhaustion.

While Illya rests, Gaby takes a moment to inspect him for damage of a more physical variety.

Her palms skim the planes of his dark turtleneck and come away tacky. She wonders how much of the blood is his own. She next examines the abraded skin on his knuckles, inspects the gashes on his face and hands as she cards her fingers through his hair.

Solo would have told her by now if there were anything more serious. For his part, the American seems relatively unscathed as well.

Gaby offers up her gratitude to no one in particular. She gestures for Solo to take the wheel once more where he awaits her signal.

The mechanic nods and mentally spurs on the Trabi, reviving its weary spirit. It purrs under her feet, races off under the brightening sky.

It takes them an hour to reach their safehouse, tucked in a remote corner of Kinzig Valley. To neither her nor Solo’s surprise, Waverly is already there to greet them.

“Right on time,” he announces, his smile simultaneously droll and grim. “The medics arrived not two minutes ago.”

Gaby jumps out of the car, stumbles unsteadily towards the Englishman. “Did you _know?_ ” she snarls. “Did you know this would happen?”

Waverly sighs, long-suffering. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “I’m a _seer_ , Miss Teller. That doesn’t make me omniscient. This was and has always been a distinct possibility. Same as on any other mission.”

Gaby huffs, but doesn’t press the issue.

She’s not even sure she _could_ given that her head feels ready to split in two. Gaby had been anticipating a migraine, but nothing quite so severe as this. She blinks back the stars in her eyes as Illya fumbles back into consciousness.

His fingers flex, shaking from cold and emotion. She slips her hand into his, grounding him with her touch. Illya looks up at her, startled, but doesn’t pull away.

Gaby’s vision is beginning to blur again, darkening at the fringes. She can barely hear Waverly over the sudden roaring in her ears.

“—see to Mr. Kuryakin’s treatment myself. If you’d be so kind?”

Solo grabs Illya’s free hand, and, together, he and Gaby pull the Russian to his feet. A pair of medics hurry over, draping the man’s long arms over their shoulders. Illya leans heavily against them as they escort him way, Waverly trailing close behind.

Gaby’s brow furrows. She can still feel Illya shaking. _How is that possible?_ But then she looks down… and realizes that her own hands are the ones trembling.

It’s not entirely from the early morning chill either.

She stares down at them uncomprehendingly as Waverly calls back over his shoulder. “We’ll reconvene in the morning. And, Solo?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Think fast.”

  
The American catches her right as she collapses. _I hate it when he’s right_ , she thinks as the darkness descends upon her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "O Holy Night".
> 
> This is my first attempt at both magical realism and an AU! I've tried to keep everything fairly grounded in reality, drawing from modern (or perhaps not so modern) spirituality and mysticism... with a bit of German and Slavic folklore thrown in for good measure!
> 
> I do my best on the research front, so all locations, films, cars, etc... are real, and to my knowledge, period accurate. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Enjoy the rest. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Gaby awakes in a haze of pulse-pounding disorientation. Her eyelids are heavy, vision grainy as she surveys the room around her: handmade pine furniture, thick, woven rugs on the floor, gauzy, white curtains that reveal a swathe of blue sky and snow-capped trees through the frost-chilled glass.

The space is airy, cozy, and almost painfully impersonal. Temporary. The perfect lodging for a spy. Gaby huffs as recognition dawns on her. She is in a chalet in the southwest of Germany. _Recovering._ Fragments of the night before assemble into a facsimile of memory.

Infiltrating the THRUSH fortress-turned-research facility. Solo exiling her while he cracked the safe, her mechanical powers _apparently_ causing too much interference. Getting spotted by the guards and their ensuing decision to split up.

Not _her_ decision, of course.

The images intensify: clearer now and paired with sensations.

Solo pressing the computer disk into her hands and urging her to _run._ Her headlong charge into the Black Forest, her partners covering for her. A flurry of gunfire. The biting chill in the air.

A frenetic trek deep into the heart of evergreen darkness: spruce and pine and fir. Headlights slicing through shadows. Solo’s hand on her arm, his warning in her ears. A ruined transceiver. And Illya.

_Illya._

Gaby lurches to her feet. Too quickly. Black spots swim before her eyes as the dizziness runs its course. She sinks unsteadily back onto her bed.

Solo finds her like that a moment later: head between her knees, cradled in her hands. Whereas Illya would be at her side in an instant—coolly efficient, but gentle (always so gentle, she thinks)—the American simply lounges against the doorframe.

She can practically _feel_ the smirk in his voice.

“Good, you’re alive.”

“Just barely,” she mumbles, groaning as he flicks the overhead light on. Its insistent hum, unapologetic in its artifice, bleeds into the singsong of the mid-winter sun.

She waves her hand vaguely at the noisome intrusion. “Could you…?” The dissonant harmony resolves immediately, settling back into a lone, ethereal melody. She sighs. “Thank you.”

“Still nursing a hangover?” he asks, a spark of humor in those blue eyes. Gaby stares dolefully back at him, not deigning to respond. Solo’s smirk only amplifies in smugness.

“You’d _think_ nearly thirty straight hours of sleep ought to do the trick, but,” an eloquent shrug, “I guess not.”

 _Thirty?_   She mouths the word, half-wondering if he had been joking. Something in that familiar baritone of his, however, convinces her otherwise. Solo nods curtly, eyes roving over her in barely concealed concern. For all his nonchalance, the man truly _does_ worry about her.

“You gave us quite the scare, Gaby. Except Waverly of course. He always _knew_ you’d pull through eventually.”

“And Illya?”

Her words—unsteady with a naked sort of anxiety—are met with a bracing smile as he moves to join her. “Personable as ever,” he declares. “You know, I went to say goodbye to him this morning and he actually _growled_ at me. _Growled._ ”

“Like a bear,” Gaby says. She finds herself smiling despite herself. She can only imagine Illya’s restlessness, his pent-up frustration at having no one but Solo and Waverly for company.

“A grumpy, Russian bear. Exactly.”

Her laughter dies away as she replays Solo’s statement. “You went to say _goodbye_ to him,” she says, slowly, frowning. Her dark eyes sear into his. “We’re leaving.”

“We have our marching orders.”

Gaby schools her face into a carefully blank mask, though she’s sure the American can still read her anyway. He weaves his words with something bright and soothing. Something that warms her to her core and lifts up her spirits.

“Not to worry,” he tells her, “Waverly has tasked me with _assuring_ you that he will take excellent care of the Red Peril. And _I’ve_ also assured them that you will be taking excellent care of _me._ ”

Gaby arches an eyebrow at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. She can break the enchantment, she knows, reject his Persuasion.

But she won’t.

She will accept this small gesture of comfort, draw strength from his smooth-talking offering.

“Going soft, Solo?”

He places a hand on his chest in mock-sincerity. “I would be _happy_ to be your damsel in distress, Miss Teller.”

“Can I see him?” she asks suddenly. “To say—to say goodbye.”

Solo’s eyes soften even as his face takes on a hard edge. A muscle tics in his jaw and she can almost see the gears turning in his mind. “Peril took the news of his bedrest rather… poorly, I’m afraid. He won’t be receiving visitors any time soon.”

He sighs heavily. The aggrieved bearer of bad news. “Not even you.”

She nods at nothing and for far too long, staring fixedly at the floral bedspread. Solo cups her chin, gently tilting her face to his. Again, he fortifies his voice with a subtle, coaxing levity.

“Cheer up, Gaby. If we’re lucky, Waverly might be taking Peril to the hot springs. Imagine that. The two of them in Baden-Baden, holidaying for some _au naturel_ male bonding time.”

She snorts indelicately at that. Leave it to Solo to propose something so utterly ridiculous it just might be true. He would probably _kill_ to see the two men—always so professional and reserved with each other—in such a casual environment.

The American gentles her to her feet, a wolfish grin on his face. He winks at her. “Besides, it’s high time _I_ got a turn as the dashing, young man on your arm.”

“I don’t know about _young,_ Solo,” she smirks. “You’ve been looking a little long in the tooth lately.”

He shakes his head at her insolence and strolls back to the door, a conscious bounce in his step. “Get dressed, Teller. We leave in ten.”

He turns her light back on for good measure.

 

* * *

 

It is at least an eight hour drive to Berlin. Back to the Iron Curtain and that shuddering behemoth of barbed wire and shadow.

 _I’m not going back behind that Wall_ , she had sworn—and meant it.

But here she is, driving her faithful Trabi back to the place where it all began.

Waverly had gone to great lengths to prevent this from happening, as had her partners. They even went so far as to arrange her own solo mission for her… a cushy _vacation_ of an assignment out in the California sun.

Gaby had accepted their magnanimity with predictably bad grace. She imagines their ears are still burning from her scolding. It is not merely a matter of principle that has brought her to Germany.

It is necessity.

For out of all of UNCLE, Gabriella Teller is the _only_ agent for this job. The thought fills her with a sort of pride: bitter and sickly sweet. She huffs, shakes her head imperceptibly.

Solo’s eyes flick over her grim expression, the white expanses of her knuckles on the steering wheel—speaking volumes in the deafening silence. He makes a show of checking his watch and sighs.

They are close. Already, Gaby can see that vicious silhouette dominating the horizon: cruel skyline of oppression and dark magic. Her fingers clutch unconsciously at the chain around her throat, feeling for the familiar, little ring it holds.

Her touchstone: a reminder that not all Soviets were created equal (an irony she and Solo will joke about later) and a symbol of her new life and freedom. She can feel Illya’s energy infused into the metal. Cool like his hands, but thrumming with the unspoken. The unacknowledged. The understanding between the two of them.

The American clears his throat and Gaby starts, returns her hand to the steering wheel. Her fingers flex, aching from hours of immobility. The only reprieve had come from Solo _forcing_ her to stop for lunch at a nearby village: a sleepy little affair that could have been called ‘charming’ under different circumstances.

Gaby had choked down a cold sandwich and hot coffee, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Her partner, however, was determined to take his time. Despite all of her best (and, at times, shameless) efforts, they had spent well over an hour making small talk with the locals.

By the time they left, the two had standing offers to spend the holidays with what felt like half of the families who lived there. She had had to drag Solo away before the mothers could start setting him up with their daughters and nieces.

The Trabi had roared away, spurred on by the heavy press of her foot on the pedal and the desperation leaking from her fingertips. Her lungs felt crushed by the concrete tightness in her chest and she could feel the car shaking with her panic.

Solo had covered her hand on the clutch: warm and reassuring. No words needed. It was what Illya would have done for her.

Gaby relaxed under his touch and caged her nerves in a deep, dark corner of her soul. The kilometers stretched on in silence and she lost herself in the monotony of it. But now, they are approaching their destination… and can’t put off that conversation any longer.

“We need to discuss our covers, Gaby. Now that Peril’s out of the picture.”

Her jaw clenches with the reminder. She shrugs, keeps her eyes trained on that approaching mass ahead. “I don’t see what needs to change. I’m still ‘on loan’ from the Royal Ballet and you’re still my main benefactor… accompanying me to oversee your _investment._ ”

“I’d prefer the term ‘muse’, if you don’t mind,” he huffs. “God forbid Peril _ever_ find out that I posed as your patron—and, depending on how you feel, your lover—and somehow _didn’t_ worship the ground you walked on.”

Gaby flushes, an uncharacteristic stammer to her voice. “Peril doesn’t—I mean, _Illya_ doesn’t—”

“Please,” Solo smirks. “Take your time.”

She glowers at him and tosses her hair as she turns back to the road. “So, Illya won’t be there to pose as my bodyguard—”

“Your coach,” he corrects. He grins. “Though, they’re really one and the sa—”

“Surely _you_ can manage that, right?”

The American’s smile vanishes as he considers her question. His brow furrows, eyes conjuring answers from the middle distance.

“That’s a tall order, Gaby. I’d have to keep a close eye on you _and_ schmooze with all our powerful persons of interest. Not to mention all the _other_ legwork I was originally meant to do.”

“But you _could_ do it.”

He heaves a sigh, that steel-edged sincerity masked by his usual flippancy. “For you, Miss Teller? Anything.” She rolls her eyes, expecting the stinger before it comes.

“At least that’s what I _imagine_ Peril would say to you. Preferably while batting his baby blues and—”

_“Solo.”_

He shrugs off her rebuke with a knowing, little smirk. Gaby gives herself three breaths to regain her composure. When she speaks again, she is the epitome of professionalism. Solo’s response, of course, is to broaden his smile.

“Tell me again how Waverly convinced the GDR to include a _Western_ ballerina in their production, and not, say, someone from the _Bolshoi._ ”

Solo lounges back in his seat. “It was _their_ idea in the first place, Gaby. Our man just capitalized on the opportunity.” He meets her questioning gaze and huffs. “They want to pull out all the stops for this ‘new’ East Germany and what better way than this? Inviting the Russian Minister of Culture and foreign dignitaries from both sides of the Wall.”

Gaby scoffs, a mocking tone in her voice. _“Mein Gott,_ it’s an _Ossi_ Renaissance.”

 _“Beginning_ with an up-and-coming _wessi_ ballerina and a _beautiful_ limited engagement of _The Nutcracker._ You’ll dance, we’ll wine and dine at the gala, and figure out just what the devil is going on.”

“So the disk turned up nothing,” she surmises. Her mouth flattens to a taut line, shoulders squared in a preemptive posture. Defense, perhaps, or maybe an attack.

“It contained half of what we needed, but that’s a half more than when we first started.” Gaby nods, a sharp, single tilt of her chin as Solo continues. “We’ve reason to believe that the East’s sudden graciousness has _less_ to do with the arts bringing people together so much as it does _certain_ people.”

She hums shortly. “An assassination?”

“Or a drop site. Hard to tell who or _what_ exactly is on THRUSH’s agenda.”

“At least we’ll have friends on the other side,” is her cynical response. Waverly had hinted somewhat smugly about the two contacts they would have there, but refused to reveal any details.

It was meant to be a surprise, apparently.

Gaby exchanges a glance with Solo and immediately pulls over. She moves to sit in the back while her partner takes the driver’s seat. Ballerinas—especially foreign ones—would be expected to have a chauffeur.

The American slips off his signet ring and presses it into her palm, covering her hand with both of his. She can feel the glamour radiating from it: the sheer strength and elegance encased in the metal.

This gold band, marked with Janus’ two faces, will be her ticket to the Iron Curtain.

Solo drives up to Checkpoint Charlie, debonair and commanding, his best smile in place. They present their papers and submit their persons and their vehicle for inspection. The guards are thorough, but eventually wave them through—no doubt influenced by Solo’s charm-laced German.

Gaby dares to breathe only when they are on the other side. She can feel the Wall inhale and wonders if it remembers her, sniffing her out like the dogs that patrol the minefield. She shudders at the memory: searchlights screaming at her, barbed wire reaching for her like claws as they descended the zipline. The blind fury that chased her deep into the West.

That same fury that simmers just beneath its jagged, concrete skin, sizing her up as the Trabi breaches its borders. The glamour must mask her because the Wall lets them go with only a mild malevolence.

The streets are largely deserted. There is little chance of them being spotted as Gaby resumes her rightful place in the driver’s seat. She zips through the familiar roads, turning on autopilot.

“Where are we going?”

“Home,” she says tightly. Off Solo’s look, she adds, “Apparently, my flat’s been doubling as a safehouse since I left. It’s either go there or find a hotel.”

“Better to go with the evil you know,” he says, nodding, if not in approval, then in understanding. Gaby hums.

“At least for tonight.”

“You’re not worried about being recognized at all?”

She inclines her head in an approximation of a shrug. “I’d be _astonished._ It’d be a miracle if anyone I knew before were still left.”

Though it had only been six months or so since the Vinciguerra Affair, the _Stasi_ were as active as ever. Solo digs his heels into the passenger footwell, slamming on imaginary brakes as Gaby careens blindly around the corner.

“Keep in mind that I’m not here as Gaby Teller, the mechanic. I’m here as the _wessi_ socialite and ballerina. I doubt even _you_ would have recognized me.”

She can feel the American’s eyes studying her, comparing her to the feisty “grease monkey” he’d first met. _No, I suppose not,_ his gaze seems to say.

“All I’m saying, Gaby, is to be careful.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, sardonically playful. “In East Germany? I’ll take that under advisement.”

An expert handbrake turn later and they are in front of a grimy brick building. “Here we are,” she declares without preamble. Solo grabs their bags and follows her up the narrow staircase to the fourth floor. Her apartment is the last door on the right.

Gaby leads the way, unlocking the door without so much as a second thought. It is muscle memory, an action she has done thousands of times, and it steadies her. Something familiar to hold onto.

She flicks on the light, flooding the little flat with that low hum she can she never forget. She still hears it sometimes... it brings her right back to this space: cozy in a threadbare sort of way, a pale imitation of the life she’d always _wanted_ to live.

Gaby ushers Solo in. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but I’m as much a guest here as you are.”

She watches as he surveys the room: a modest sitting area, dollhouse-sized a kitchen, and a hallway leading to the bathroom and bedroom.

“Is this how you remembered it?”

His tone may be casual, but she knows the question is anything but. He’s sizing her up closely, carefully cataloguing all of her reactions to being back.

“The kitchen is fully stocked and there’s no clutter anywhere,” she says, before plastering on a grin. “I’d think not.”

“Well, _someone_ clearly went to a lot of trouble staging this to make us feel comfortable here.” He investigates her former apartment in more detail, narrating as he goes. “Fresh flowers on the table, vodka, tea kettle, a cot—much more comfortable than your sofa, I’m sure—and a record player. Wouldn’t surprise me if there happened to be a few _verboten_ albums as well. There’s even a chess boa—”

“I’m going for a drive.”

Gaby cuts him off abruptly, already backing up to the door. She doesn’t want to think about Illya right now, doesn’t want to be here in this flat, crowded in by memories, any longer. She looks over at Solo and knows he understands.

“You’re welcome to join me. If you’d like.”

 

* * *

 

The garage is a lighthouse in these stormy seas: a siren song she can’t resist. Solo frowns as they pull up to it, though he _must_ have known this is where she’d go.

“They’ve all gone home for the night,” she assures him, sensing an impending lecture. He dutifully trudges behind her as they approach her old haunt. Her heart quickens as something like homesickness hits her.

Solo picks the lock and soon, they are inside.

The moonlight serenades them, streaming in through the skylights, illuminating the garage just enough to navigate comfortably. Gaby curses under her breath as she looks around.

“It looks like it’s on its last legs.”

“Business must be slow.”

She shakes her head vigorously, tunes into the sleepy and wounded vehicles around her. _The infirmary_ , she used to call this place. Her patients rouse from sleep: some of them new to her, others oldtimers still awaiting parts.

“No, that’s not it,” she mutters, listening in. “Business is… _too much._ Not enough hands to go around.” She frowns, heart aching at the revelation. “They’ve had to turn people away. Half the cars here are _Stasi._ ”

Gaby points. “Moskvich, Moskvich, Volga—that’s a KGB car right there.” She stops short, pushes thoughts of the KGB and their cars from her mind. “They’ve only been taking the jobs they couldn’t afford _not_ to.”

“Beggars forced to be choosers,” Solo remarks.

“Only they’ll be out of more than a job if they don’t get these done in time. And done _right._ ”

The American turns from where he’s been inspecting the guts of a Zaporoschez—another KGB standard, she thinks bitterly—to face her. He blinks slowly, deciphering the urgency in her tone.

“And so your plan is to moonlight as a mechanic to make sure that doesn’t happen. Just like the elves and the shoemaker.”

“You know _Die Wichtelmänner_?”

“That’s beside the point. You’re saying, Gaby, that you want to risk blowing your cover to work here in _secret._ At a business predominantly serving the two groups it would be _disastrous_ to be caught by.”

She holds his gaze steady and nods. “These are good men that work here, Solo.”

“All right,” he says finally, running a hand through his hair.

“Tell me what I can do to help.”


	3. Chapter 3

For better or worse, he can still feel them here.

Gaby’s energy is a caress on his shoulders, a gentling on his wrists, while Cowboy’s is a clap on the back. A comfort and a curse that reminds him—as if he could ever _forget—_ that they are completing the mission without him.

Illya grits his teeth, biting back the stabs of self-vindictive regret. He should never have allowed himself to be sidelined. _Never_ should have let Gaby go back behind the Iron Curtain without him.

But orders are orders… and who understands obedience better than the KGB’s best?

A knock at his door shocks him, albeit unwillingly, from his downward spiral. His head snaps up sharply as Waverly enters.

“What do you need, sir?” he asks, stiffly.

“Need?” The Englishman frowns as he pulls up a chair. “Oh, no, this is a _social_ call, Kuryakin. Though, there is, however, a bit of business I’d like to discuss with you first. It’s about your episodes.”

Illya’s jaw clenches. He rolls his shoulders back, ramrod-straight posture even more severe under this new line of questioning. “What about them?”

“Well, I was hoping you could tell me,” he replies. Cryptic. “I know when and why they started. I want to know why they are happening _now.”_

The shame surges through Illya’s veins, burning under his skin. He breaks eye contact with his superior to look _anywhere_ else—a gesture that would have earned him a beating back in Moscow.

“Because I compromised the mission,” he concludes. “That’s why you pulled me from this case.”

Waverly frowns at him. Illya can feel the disappointment radiating from him, but, inexplicably, it seems to be almost entirely internalized.

“I pulled you so that you could get _well._ Not because I think you’re a liability or because I wanted to _punish_ you, but so that I could help.”

It’s Illya’s turn to frown. He should have expected this from the Englishman—so different from any of his other handlers—but it still comes to him as a shock. _“Help?”_ he repeats. “You’ve already helped me, sir. More than… more than anyone.”

 _More than KGB_ , he’d wanted to say, but that is a treason he can’t afford to voice aloud. Not yet, at least.

Waverly shakes his head with a startling ferocity. “I clearly haven’t if you’re continuing to be affected like this. So, tell me what you can about your episodes and we’ll see what we can do better.”

Again, the man’s word choice catches Illya off-guard. _We._ As if the two of them are somehow partners… teammates. Perhaps even friends. Illya scoffs at that. _Ridiculous_. Entirely unprofessional.

He realizes with a start that the Englishman is still awaiting an answer from him. Illya’s eyes dart around the room as he thinks. He exhales heavily.

“I get… overwhelmed. Sometimes.”

An unsatisfactory answer, but Waverly merely nods, encouraging. “You’re an Empath. Perfectly understandable.”

A muscle works in Illya’s jaw. Clearly, he’s expected to contribute more. “Everything around me starts to become _too much._ Usually on mission or during interrogations. I feel all the emotions around me. Their pain and their fear and their _anger._ ”

He swallows thickly, his recall stirring up those old emotions. “I… I absorb it. And I magnify it. All of it.”

“Until you reach your tipping point.”

No judgment or rebuke. Just a plain statement of fact. As if this were somehow a natural occurrence. Illya nods.

 _“Da._ ” His skin burns even more now. “You know what happens next.”

Mercifully, Waverly doesn’t press him for further details. He’s witnessed the aftermath before, has footed the bills for any number of hotel rooms and hospitals.

“And how is it normally?” Seeing Illya’s confusion, he hastens to clarify. “When you’re with your partners. Off the clock.”

Illya answers in that same stilted manner, perhaps even more reserved given the personal bent to this question. _Off the clock_. What should the Englishman care about how and with whom he spends his free time?

“I am still… aware of everything. But it is manageable.”

Waverly shakes his head again. “Manageable,” he scoffs. “Even that begs improvement.” He leans forward, steepling his fingers as he does. The man’s blue eyes read him by degrees… seeing _into_ him and through.

“Forgive me for being indelicate, Kuryakin, but your Russian superiors used—or, should I say _misused—_ your Empathy to their advantage, didn’t they?”

Illya recoils at the question. He clears his throat, each word painstakingly chosen. “Having such _intimate_ access to mark was considered an asset. Yes.”

“And the episodes?”

He knows, but curse the man, he’s going to make him say it.

“Were _deliberately_ activated at times.”

The point of no return. Illya’s mind is reeling from the confession. That instinctual panic, of impending punishment, claws savagely at him. But Waverly merely nods.

“I see,” he says. “I had feared as much myself. _Now,_ I’ve been doing some digging around to see if there isn’t another piece to this puzzle.”

Illya’s breath hitches in his throat. He wets his lips, a terse sort of optimism in his voice.

“And?”

“And, frankly, this is all a bit disquieting.” The Englishman peers at him intently. “You see, Kuryakin, I believe that at heart, you are a healer. Someone meant to save life rather than take it.”

“It is all I know how to do,” he says, more quietly than he’d intended.

“Which is precisely my point. There is an inherent violence—a cognitive dissonance, if you will—in living counter to your calling. But you’re _wrong_ about yourself.” Something in the man’s tone gives Illya pause. He watches his superior warily.

“I saw how you looked after Miss Teller back in Rome,” Waverly continues, eyes bright with conviction. “You’ve patched up your teammates time and time again and been there when they needed you most. I’ve _felt_ the purpose it gave you.”

A thought, conflicted and terrifying, seizes him.

“You want to reassign me.”

The Englishman _grins_ at him. “Not at all, not at all. You’re very good at what you do and I daresay you enjoy it. I’m merely reminding you that you are more than a weapon.” His smile (and his voice) suddenly drops. “It’s okay to be a shield sometimes too.”

Illya stares.

His mind is stuttering over such a proclamation. _There’s more to you than brute strength,_ Waverly had once told him. Is _this_ what he had meant?

Waverly coughs politely, snapping Illya back to the present moment. “That brings me to my next point. _Shielding._ We need to work on developing your defense mechanisms. Setting energetic boundaries and all that.”

Illya’s brow furrows. “You mean, I can… I can block it?”

“Block it, transmute it, whatever you need to do to feel right again.” He smiles, a plan brewing behind those far-seeing eyes. “There’s much for you to learn on your own and _some_ that will require the help of your teammates.”

“Gaby and… Cowboy?”

“Can help you, yes. And they _have_ been, I’m sure of it.”

Waverly crosses his legs in a figure-four. He leans back to study him the way Illya would a chess board. Calculating. Always three steps ahead.

“You’ve heard of energy suns, haven’t you, Kuryakin? They’re quite rare, you know. Giving off more energy than they can reasonably handle.”

“You think that I am one such individual.”

“You’re catching on,” Waverly says, smiling. “Unequivocally, you are an Empath. But you’re so much more than that. You give twice what you receive. And it _builds_ inside you, doesn’t it? Like a volcano. Waiting to erupt.”

A curt nod from Illya. He’s collapsing in on himself, trying to shrink beneath the man’s gaze. Foolish, he knows, but there is a certain vulnerability in being _seen_ like this _._

Waverly has the good grace to pretend he doesn’t notice. He carries on, as smooth as ever. “As I’ve said, you seem to fare much better around your teammates. Mr. Solo, you’re aware, is—”

“An energy vampire.”

Waverly arches a brow at him: a subtle rebuke. “In not so many words, yes. While his superiors have _similarly_ applied his gifts, I believe that with a bit of finessing, there could be a mutually beneficial arrangement between the two of you.”

“He draws energy from me…”

“Like a siphon. And, in turn, he won’t have to look _elsewhere_ to whet his appetite. Of course, he’ll be needing some training as well. Lord knows just what the CIA has taught him to do with himself.”

Illya grunts. “Only to draw from crowds.”

“Unless he has an attack order.” Waverly sighs. “Yes, he’ll be needing training indeed.”

“And Gaby?”

He shifts his gaze to his father’s watch, but he swears he glimpses a hint of a smile on the Englishman’s face.

“Well, she grounds you, doesn’t she? The both of you. Keeps you from tearing yourselves and _each other_ apart.”

“The calm in the storm,” he adds automatically. Illya fights the urge to roll his eyes and kick himself for the sentiment.

“But a tempest all the same,” Waverly replies, and, this time, he _is_ smiling. “I didn’t keep the three of you together simply _because_ you made a good team. I did it because I knew you were good _for_ each other.”

The Englishman rises to his feet. “Once Gaby and Solo return, we’ll see about honing that innate synergy between you. Until then, you and I will be focusing on your recovery, and, more importantly, your _resilience._ ”

He edges towards the door. “And _that_ begins right now. Pack your bags, Kuryakin. We’re going on a little holiday.”

Illya scrambles to stand, unsteady in his weakened state. “Sir?”

“I said this was a social call, didn’t I?” He waits for the Russian’s reluctant nod. “Come along then. I’d like to be at Baden-Baden within the hour.”

He is gone before Illya can react.

 _Baden-Baden,_ he thinks, frowning. _What reason did—?_

 _The hot springs_.

The realization jolts through him like an electric current. He swears loudly.

_Cowboy._

Illya can almost hear the man laughing at him now as he begins to pack, all the while muttering mutinously to himself.

He _will_ recover in Baden-Baden... _if only_ to get revenge on the American later.


	4. Chapter 4

Solo’s hand ghosts over her lower back as they approach the Berlin State Opera House. Rather than rehearsing at the ballet school, they have been granted access to their performance venue. No matter where in the world she goes, Gaby will always consider this place magnificent.

They enter from the lobby and are nearly _swallowed_ in the sea of crimson: plush red seats, sweeping drapes, carpeted aisles—all offset by gold ornamentation throughout. She gazes up at the stunning chandelier above them, which she _knows_ twinkles and chimes and laughs when illuminated.

Only the work lights are on now as she and Solo make their way to the stage, completely ensconced in shadow. Her old ballet company has assembled there—strange faces going through familiar motions.

A man speaks to them while they stretch and Gaby’s heart skips a beat. She takes in the broad shoulders, the fair hair, and the depth and warmth of a voice she hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

His words carry over to her as her pace begins to quicken. He’s introducing her, by the sounds of it.

“—a rising star,  already making a name for herself outside London. She is _also_ one of our own.” The man pauses to let that sink in. She can see the interest piquing in the other dancers’ expressions, their perfect posture straightening even further.

“Miss Sommer,” he continues, “trained at the Berlin Ballet School years ago, before joining the Royal Ballet. I expect you will _all_ welcome her back with open arms.”

The man catches a glimpse of her and Solo, waves his hand theatrically, as they reach the steps. “Now, without further ado, I’d like to introduce you all to our production’s Clara, Miss Gabriella,” he freezes when she steps into the light. _“Schmidt?”_

_“Gaby?”_

She turns to the source of the sound… a petite brunette who has risen to her feet in undisguised shock—an expression mirrored by the blonde man beside her.

“Friends of yours?” Solo murmurs in her ear. She nods to no one in particular and steps further out onto the stage, putting on a smile.

“Hello.”

 

* * *

 

Her initial shock wears off as rehearsal begins in earnest.

Gaby loses herself in the physicality of her role—a welcome reprieve from the thoughts and memories hurtling through her mind. Solo has long since retreated to the first row of seats. It had been easy enough to forget about him.

She wishes she could say the same for her _other_ friends here. Nora Sieber and Jannick Heldt. Two names from another life. Too many emotions to process. They had grown up alongside each other, studying and training and performing.

When her father had died, she had left and they had stayed, gradually losing touch. To see them here now, to dance in his arms and alongside her is almost too much. And from the way they keep looking at her—as if unsure that she’s real—she knows they feel the same.

Gaby concentrates on her steps, allows herself to indulge in more recent memories. The practice room in London where she had first learned her role. Waverly had commandeered a small team of dancers and instructors for her benefit.

Illya, under the guise of prepping for his cover, had decided to accompany her to all rehearsals. In no time at all, he was barking out orders, interrupting frequently to critique her form. He held Gaby to a higher standard than even Waverly did and soon, began running his _own_ rehearsals after hours.

Those were the ones she’d enjoyed most… even _if_ Solo had sat in on the majority of them. Illya would watch her with an almost unnerving intensity, lifting her effortlessly when the part called for it.

 _My mother was ballerina_ , he’d confided to her. _She left the Bolshoi when she married my father._

Gaby mulls over these words now as she dances with Jannick, feeling the warming press of his palms on her ribs and staring deep into fathomless blue eyes. He sets her down gently and calls an end to the rehearsal, not breaking eye contact—and, she notices, not removing his hands either.

Solo ascends the steps and she moves quickly to join him. They wait for the other dancers (save for Jannick and Nora) to disperse. Only when they are certain they are alone, does any of them dare to speak.

Nora approaches them first. “Gabriella Schmidt,” she says, smiling, “it _is_ you. We were only told to expect a Miss Teller and a Mr. Solo. We had no idea _you_ would be showing up.”

She turns next to the American and extends her hand. “Nora Sieber, Mr. Solo—or should I call you Mr. Deveney? This is Jannick Heldt. We’ve known Gaby a long time.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Solo says, throwing an expectant look at the mechanic. Gaby remembers herself and nods.

“Nora and I made first soloist together. As you can see, she’s worked her way up to principle, while Jannick—”

“Dances, directs, and occasionally, choreographs,” he interjects. “These are hard times we’ve fallen on. We all have to wear different hats.”

“Including that of spy?”

If they are phased by Solo’s question, they don’t show it. Jannick shrugs. “Sleeper agents, more accurately. Your man recruited us five, six months ago. As he put it, our profession gives us a ‘nearly unprecedented access’ to the rich and powerful.”

“It’s amazing,” Nora adds, “how _little_ they tend to notice us without a spotlight to hold their attention.”

“A classic misdirect.” Solo nods in approval. “Clever.”

Gaby stares at the three of them in turn, her mind still processing this revelation. _These_ are her contacts for the mission?

“So, you’re MI-6?” she asks, if only to say _something._

Nora shakes her head. “We work for Waverly. And, if all goes well, we might be seeing the two of you on the other side.”

Her eyes suddenly take on a distant, wistful quality. “What’s it like, Gaby? The West.”

Gaby pauses. She has traveled the world, yes, but almost never as a tourist. What can she say about this life? About this abstraction of freedom she has gained in service of her agency? She smiles sadly at the brunette.

“If I ever truly get to find out, I’ll let you know.”

Nora returns the smile, though Gaby knows that wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. She hums, pivots the conversation. “I hope you like your apartment at least. Waverly was _very_ particular about how he wanted it.”

 _“You_ staged our flat?”

“Jannick’s the far more natural homemaker,” she jokes. “The flowers were his idea: a bouquet to welcome our _mystery_ ballerina.”

Gaby looks over at the blond man. A faint flush is creeping up his cheeks. Endearing. “They were lovely. _Thank you,_ Jannick. And you too, Nora.”

The brunette grins. “Feels just like home, doesn’t it?”

Solo rescues her with his easy charm and a clear return to professionalism. Business only. That’s exactly what she needs right now.

“The show is just over two weeks away... mind walking me through your plan?”

Jannick nods. “Gaby will train with us, while _you_ are free to come and go as you please. After the performance, there will be a gala—a much more exclusive affair.”

“And a much more likely target than the show,” Gaby adds. “Assuming their plan calls for _quality_ over quantity.”

“Exactly. Jannick, Gaby, and I will comb the theatre before and after the performance to see if anything has been set up or left behind.”

“And you, Mr. Solo, will be spending the night people-watching. Once you’re at the gala, I think your job will be a little more… hands-on.” Jannick sighs. “It’s a shame about your other partner. We could have used the extra set of eyes to watch the backstage.”

Solo frowns. “You suspect one of your own is involved?”

“We suspect _everyone,”_ Nora tells him. Her shoulders rise and fall gracefully. It is small wonder Waverly has looked for agents here. Cynicism is simply a way of life.

Jannick checks his watch, swears softly under his breath. “It’s getting late. Care to join us for dinner? Not as spies, but as… three old friends and one new one.”

Her heart lurches. It would be nice, she thinks, to be Gaby Schmidt for one night. Not Agent Teller or Gabriella Sommer. No agendas. Solo cuts her off before she can say anything.

“We’ll have to beg you for a raincheck,” he says, a glib apology always at the ready. “I’m afraid Gaby and I have some other business to attend to this evening.”

“But you can handle that yourself, _can’t you,_ Solo?”

The American appraises her closely. A shadow crosses his face, but it’s gone before she can make sense of it. A smile: bright, polite, and to anyone else’s eyes, sincere.

“Of course,” he assures her. “Enjoy your night.”

 

* * *

 

It is nearly midnight by the time she returns to the apartment. Solo hears her fumbling with the key and opens the door for her, keeping a tight lid on his irritation. She shouldn’t be out so late… _especially_ on her own.

But her punctuality (or lack thereof) is the least of his concern.

Solo huffs when she stumbles in. Gaby’s Aura—usually a striking, bold orange—is blurry around the edges, tainted with a riot of other tones. She’s drunk, and, by the looks of it, will have a raging hangover the next morning.

Gaby shuffles over to the record player, dragging a lazy hand over the flowers as she passes. They seem to nod their heads agreeably from their perch on the kitchen counter. The mechanic selects an album at random, and, soon, something dangerously Western-sounding begins to play.

A mischievous grin and she’s grabbing him by the wrists.

“Dance with me.”

“Haven’t you had enough of that for one day?”

“This is different,” she declares, “because _I_ am the choreographer.”

Solo watches her with only mild amusement. “Is that so?”

Gaby hums and sways to the music, surprisingly coordinated despite it all. Bright spots of color bloom around her… much more like the woman he knows. He acquiesces when she tugs on his arms again.

Solo lets her lead, but unlike Peril, he does his part in keeping up with her. “So,” he asks while he twirls her, “how was dinner?”

She beams at him. Unnervingly genuine. “It was _wonderful._ We had currywurst and schnitzel and just talked.” She heaves a melodramatic sigh. “About life before and how it is now.”

He stills, a few measures before the song ends. Gaby frowns. “Don’t look at me like that, Solo. It’s not like I gave up state secrets.”

“But you  _did_ share yourself with them. Much more than I’m guessing you ever would normally.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, hands set on her hips. Her head tilts to the side: an innocent gesture that spells trouble. “And that bothers you?”

“We don’t know them.”

 _“You_ don’t know them. I, however—”

“Have reunited with them after… seven or so years? What do you really know about who they are _now?_ ”

Gaby scoffs, draws herself to her full height. She’s still a head shorter than him, but it’s enough to give him pause.

“I know that _Waverly_ trusted them enough to recruit them and _that_ ,” she says, tossing her hair indignantly, “is enough for me.”

“Like Miss Sieber said, it’s better to suspect everyone.” He shrugs, decides to play a hunch. “It’s what Peril would say if he were here.”

Gaby lunges at him. “But he’s _not,_ Solo!” She shakes her head, a new rawness to her voice. “He’s not.”

“Which is why _I_ have to be the voice of reason for him. I may only be his understudy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

He rests his hands on her shoulders, stoops slightly to look her in the eyes. “Someone has to ask these types of questions, Gaby, so I’m asking you now. Who is Jannick?”

She wriggles out of his touch and crosses her arms tightly. “He’s someone I used to dance with. A friend.”

“I _mean,_ ” he says, sighing, “who is he to _you?”_

Gaby glares at him, punctuating each word with a step forward. Her hands are balled into fists and her face is flushed from the alcohol and the accusation. “He’s. A. _Friend.”_

“So whatever _that_ was between you two today… that was nothing? No prior history there. No _future_ complications?”

She huffs, lips curved in a humorless smile. “Are you asking as yourself? Or Illya?”

“I’m asking as someone with your best interests at heart. If you don’t want to accept that, then, I am asking as your _colleague_ on what is already a highly delicate mission.”

Gaby’s eyes snap to his, seething. “My _personal_ feelings have never been an issue before, have they?” She shakes her head, stalks off to the hallway.

She looks over her shoulder at him, and, for a fleeting moment, Solo sees vulnerability. It is gone as quickly as it appears.

“I thought you trusted me enough to understand.”

He hears her bedroom door slam. He shuts his eyes and exhales heavily. It had been a fight he’d _needed_ to pick, but the victory—if he could even call it that—still leaves him hollow.

Solo switches off the record player and quietly turns out the lights.


	5. Chapter 5

Illya’s mood hasn’t exactly _improved_ in the brief interlude between their chalet in Kinzig Valley and their arrival in Baden-Baden. He is immune to the old world charm that surrounds him now, ignores its breathtaking wintry graces.

Waverly seems intent on prolonging his torture. They are in a small, woodworking shop to see the cuckoo clocks—the town’s other famous offering. Under different circumstances, Illya would have been content to explore each unique piece, to converse with all three-generations of its makers.

The shop is nearly empty, but he can feel the awe of the customers, the wisdom and _passion_ imbued in each item on display. _Gaby would like this place_ , he decides. _Maybe, after this mission, he could ask her…_

Illya brings that train of thought to a screeching halt. He chides himself. There would be no way the hot springs _wouldn’t_ be brought up. If not by him, then by Cowboy.

Or worse, _Gaby._

No, it would be overly presumptuous of him. Inappropriate. Colored by all manner of suggestion. He huffs and pushes all thoughts of the mechanic and bath houses aside. To his infinite chagrin (and, no doubt, to the man’s infinite amusement), the Englishman derails that plan.

“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” he proclaims, one hand sweeping grandly around the shop. A showman’s stance, emboldened by the confidence of one who has read the ending. “Miss Teller would be having a field day in here.”

He gestures to the more extravagant display of clocks: carved, animate birds that swoop and fly and sing on the hour. A particularly intricate and beautiful magic to each of them. Illya shakes his head slightly and points to the more traditional offerings.

“She would like these ones more. No glamour,” he explains. “Just craftsmanship.”

Waverly smiles at the old-fashioned clocks. He nods. “Only blood, sweat, and tears for our Gaby. No fancy accoutrement. I see what you mean.”

He turns to Illya, a deceptive innocence in his expression. “Thinking of getting one for her? It _is_ almost Christmas after all.”

Illya balks.

“It is very… domestic present.”

The Englishman shrugs, that curious light still burning in his eyes. “We could all use a touch of home sometimes. _That_ right there is the type of gift that lasts generations. Witnesses thousands of memories too, I tell you.”

The images rise unbidden to his mind: hanging the cuckoo clock on the wall in Gaby’s apartment… in their first home together, a _real_ home… a tall, blond boy and a short, dark-haired girl racing past it, breathless from laughter and running, while he and Gaby look on fondly.

_Domestic._

_Dangerous,_ is what it really is.

Illya wonders then if the Seer is testing him somehow. Or prophesying. But he won’t ask. He _can’t_ ask.

Instead, he runs his palm over the bright blue roof of the little chalet-style clock. He nods self-consciously at the Englishman.

“I… I will think about it.”

 

* * *

 

As Illya soon learns, the hot springs—or thermal baths, as they call them—are nothing like the _banyas_ of his home country.

Here in Baden-Baden, at this place called Friedrichsbad, Illya is expected to follow a strict Irish-Roman bathing regimen.

Seventeen steps.

All to be completed within three hours.

More specifically, it must be completed in the nude.

Illya grits his teeth as he slowly and carefully undresses, neatly stowing his clothes in the locker they’ve provided for him. Mercifully, this is not a co-ed bathing day.

It will only be men in the bath house. An enormous relief, _even_ if one of them happens to be his boss.

He can’t deny, though, that there is something special about this place. He could feel it as soon as he’d walked in: a vibrancy and a reverence. A calmness, too, that seems to assure him that more than just the physical would be cleansed today.

 _This is a healing place_ , he senses.

It settles his nerves as he finishes the last of his preparations. It seems to be only his energy in this space. There is no residue of previous visitors, no emotions echoing off the marble walls or lingering in the brass fixtures.

A miracle.

Illya sighs and makes his way to one of the large shower heads… forfeiting his towel to the attendant.

_No going back now._

It is not the nakedness that bothers him so much as the context. He is here for _leisure_. Necessity or obligation does not demand he be here. There are no ceremonial or practical or even _social_ machinations behind it.

He is just one of many embarking on this journey.

Illya lets the warm water wash over him. He does not pause to enjoy it, but immediately begins his ablutions. He is meticulous, single-minded in purpose, steadied by the ritual of it. As soon as he is clean, he shuts off the shower, accepts the towel and sandals offered to him and heads to the next room.

The tiles are hot beneath his feet, but the sandals are several sizes too small. He will have to do without.

He spreads his towel on one of the wooden lounge chairs and lays down, gaze sweeping over the colorful birds and flowers that adorn the walls—and determinedly _not_ looking at where his boss is reclining.

Even in this beautiful space, he is still on edge. He ticks the seconds off in his head, waiting for the recommended time to pass before advancing… trading in the warm air bath for a hot air one.

The change is instantaneous, almost all-consuming in its intensity. Illya breathes deeply as he settles into the chair. For the first time, he is out of his head and allowing himself to absorb the healing energy around him.

At the end of his allotted five minutes, he feels like a changed man.

The next steps follow in dream-like succession. He goes through a series of thermal steam baths that gradually increase in temperature and then to the pools that do the inverse. One room, in particular, captivates his attention with the magnificent dome above him.

Truly, this had been one of the grandest bath houses in all of Europe. He swims laps around the pool, at ease with himself and the world. There is a lightness, a _wholeness_ to himself that he can’t remember ever experiencing prior to this.

When he plunges into the icy depths of the cold water bath, he almost laughs aloud at the freedom he feels. It is invigorating, purifying. A shock after the steam baths and thermal waters, but refreshing all the same.

He dries himself off and proceeds to the darkened relaxation room. He lies on one of the raised beds as an attendant wraps him in a cocoon of blankets. He can only imagine what Cowboy would say if he could see him… but finds that he suddenly doesn’t care.

Illya almost dozes by the time his thirty minutes are up as he is directed to the bath house’s final destination: the reading room. He wraps himself in a towel and basks in the sunshine streaming in above him.

He is almost startled to see Waverly already there, sipping a cup of tea. The spell starts to break as reality begins to call him back. He draws the towel tighter around himself and pads softly out to the small terrace.

Unsurprisingly, the Englishman follows him.

“What did you think?”

 _“Bozhe moi,_ this place is…” he frowns. He can’t think of the words in any language to describe how he feels. Waverly nods in apparent understanding.

“There’s a curative quality to the waters that extends beyond the heat or minerals. Simply no place quite like it.” The man shrugs. “I’ve found that there are certain locations out there that elicit such an effect. An altered sense of reality.”

Illya hums. Gaby had tried to explain that to him once—how she could spend hours in a garage, losing herself so completely in her work as to forget the world around her. She always seemed calmer and… _brighter_ afterwards.

Much like he does now.

He blinks quickly. Waverly is speaking.

“—getting us rooms for the night. We’ll stay here in Baden-Baden as long as you need. And, before you ask— _no._ You are _not_ ready to rejoin your partners.”

Illya quickly masks his disappointment, the sudden puncturing of false hopes. He isn’t quick enough.

Waverly’s expression softens. “This is simply a balm. Remarkable though it may be, it isn’t a cure. You’re still going to need training.”

“When do we start?”

He is sated and energized, ready to begin whatever Waverly has in store for him. But the Englishman simply smiles at him.

“ _Rest,_ Kuryakin. We’ll start tomorrow.” A flicker of humor burns in his eyes. “Clairvoyant or not, we _both_ know Miss Teller won’t let us hear the end of it otherwise.”

Illya’s lips quirk upwards. “No,” he agrees. “We will not.”

The thought warms him more than anything Friedrichsbad has to offer.


	6. Chapter 6

Solo’s breakfast is untouched, his coffee _poetically_ cold and bitter—nothing more fitting, he thinks, for such a melancholy morning.

All around him is evidence of their fight. It taunts and screams and pleads from every corner: a poltergeist of poor decisions. Gaby’s anger stains the walls, seeping like blood into the plaster. The harsh words they exchanged settle like dust onto the furniture.

Even the flowers seem to have wilted overnight.

It is times like these that Solo envies the Russian. Property damage of a _physical_ variety would have been so much easier to deal with.

As it stands, though, there is a staleness, a lingering heaviness, to the room that makes Solo reach reluctantly for his tie. He loosens his silken noose and tugs, discomfited, at his collar. Thousands of quips about “clearing the air” run through his mind. He finds no humor in any of them.

With a skillful flick of the wrist, he sends his newspaper flying. Solo follows its trajectory with only a modicum of interest… right up until it lands.

His eyes go from the headlines on the floor to the delicate bare feet behind them, up over the checkered pajamas, the messy ponytail, and the taut, guarded expression—sober in more ways than one.

He inhales sharply.

Gaby’s Aura is cloudy, but her eyes are clear: a cautious firebrand searing into him. He waits patiently, giving her all the time and space she needs.

“I wasn’t lying when I said Jannick was a friend,” she says eventually. Gaby shifts from one foot to the other, folding her arms protectively over her chest. “But I wasn’t telling you the whole truth.”

Solo nods. He’d expected as much. After a moment’s hesitation, Gaby takes the seat he offers her. She doesn’t volunteer any further information.

“The one that got away?” he finally prompts.

Gaby drops her gaze from his, looks pointedly out the small window. “I left the ballet company and,” she shakes her head, starts over. “The timing was never right for us. I became a full-time mechanic and a part-time spy.”

She shrugs. “Figured I’d never see him again.”

“And now that you have?”

Gaby meets his eyes steadily. Her words are measured, deliberately chosen. “It’s… familiar. Familiar and new at the same time.” A rueful hint of a smile. “It’s nice to have a—a _friend_ here.”

“And I’m guessing it’s a hell of a lot more complicated without Peril around.” He arches a knowing eyebrow at her. “I take it _he_ was the one you were alluding to last night? Personal feelings and all that.”

Gaby fidgets with the cuffs of her pajama sleeves and graces him with a token of a nod. It reminds him so strongly of the Russian that he has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling. He settles on a sip of coffee instead, grimacing when he sets the cup back down.

Solo wills himself into composure. He leans back and sighs. “Look, Gaby, I can’t say that I’m going to trust Jannick, or even Nora, but I trust _you._ ”

The mechanic hums in acknowledgement. “And as far as my… personal feelings go?”

“That’s for you to decide,” he tells her, then, “I’ve got your back either way.”

Gaby gives him a small, grateful smile and rises gracefully to her feet. She takes the two steps from the makeshift dining room into the kitchen.

A sharp cry and she is stumbling, one hand clutching the chipped tiles on the counter, the other pressed to her stomach. Her head is bowed, dark hair spilling messily over her heaving shoulders.

“Gaby! Gaby, are you all right?”

Solo notes the sudden shaking in her legs and quickly guides her to sit on the hardwood floor. Red pulses through her Aura in angry-looking streaks, while stabs of gray set off all sorts of alarms in his mind.

It is over in seconds.

Her Aura calms, but there are traces of something dark left behind. He can _feel_ it.

“I’m fine,” she assures him, not entirely unconvincingly. “Just got a bit dizzy is all.”

“And the pain?”

“Passing.”

Solo hums grimly. “Solar plexus.” The body’s most powerful and most _vital_ energy center. Whatever the hell that was, it was serious. Gaby frowns up at him.

“What are you thinking?”

“Could be nothing,” he shrugs. A lie. “Could be something. An aftershock from treating Peril. Or an attack of sorts.”

Gaby slowly gets to her feet, only politely relying on Solo to help her. “I think it’s the Wall, personally.”

“The Wall.”

She nods. “It must sense that I’m not supposed to be here and is trying to drive me out. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? A shadow. Ever since we arrived.”

Gaby doesn’t wait for him to respond. She already knows the answer.

“I’ve only felt it lift once,” she confides.

“At the garage.”

“For you, as well?” she asks, head tilting to the side. Her expression is inscrutable, eyes searching his face for _something._

He shrugs. “One of the only reasons I’m on board with your shoemaker plan. There’s something about that place. It’s stronger for you, obviously, I just—”

“Absorb it by osmosis?”

Gaby grins, a little more confident now. “Well, Wall or no Wall, it’s nothing we can’t handle, right?”

Solo glances at the feverish tinge to her Aura and the unusual brightness in her eyes. He puts on a smile, packing as much certainty in his voice as he can manage—his sincerity currently on short supply.

“Right.”

He stares after her as she leaves to get dressed. Solo moves to clear the table, frowning when he sees the vase. If the flowers had been looking under-the-weather before, they now look terminally ill: dried stems and drooping heads that have lost most of their petals.

He quickly disposes of the blooms, deeply unnerved by what he’s seen… and what he still feels all around him.

_Fresh air._

That’s what this place needs. The small window creaks in protest as he opens it, whispering his thanks to the slight wind that dances inside. The bracing chill it brings refreshes him and cleanses the space as well.

By the time Gaby emerges from her room, there is no trace left of the malevolent or stagnant. Her Aura is bright, clear, and once again, whole.

He can only hope it will stay that way.

 _The Wall_.

It’s a plausible theory, and without a doubt, there is some truth to it, but he has a hunch that there’s more to it than that. He thinks again of the flowers… how they seem to have absorbed  whatever ill will had been directed at her. Or, perhaps, _contributed_ to it.

 _Flowers,_ he remembers, that a certain person-of-interest had left for them.

As Solo holds the door open for the mechanic, he resolves to keep an especially close eye on Jannick going forward.


	7. Chapter 7

Waverly greets him the following morning with an approving nod and a brilliant smile. “What a difference a day makes. How do you feel?”

Illya pauses to consider the question. He is still immersed in the afterglow of the Friedrichsbad hot springs. He can hardly recall a better night’s sleep.

“New,” he decides, finally. “I feel… new.”

“Well, we’ll see how you feel by the end of this,” the other man quips wryly. “No, no, there’s no need for alarm. You’re safe here. We’re going to take it easy to begin with. _Baby steps.”_

Illya shrugs, rueful, a rare tinge of humor to his voice. “My feet are not that small.”

“No, they’re not,” Waverly says, chuckling. “But be that as it may, we’re going to be erring on the side of caution. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He indicates the wooden bench before him. “Have a seat.”

Illya complies and awaits his next instruction. It doesn’t come. Eventually, he clears his throat and asks, “What do I do now?”

“Exactly that. I want you to wait.”

He balks at that. Waverly _can’t_ be serious… and yet, there’s nothing in his expression to indicate otherwise. Illya blinks back his confusion, quieting the nerves screaming and cursing inside him.

“For what? How long?”

“Only you can answer that.”

The Englishman’s thin, arrogant smile is enough to set Illya’s fingers tapping. He exhales heavily through his nose. “Sir, you want me to sit here… and do nothing.”

Waverly claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, Kuryakin.” He turns crisply on his heel, leaving Illya by himself in the snowy park.

“You know where to find me.”

* * *

 

Nearly four hours later and a harried, shaking Illya is pounding on Waverly’s door. The man ushers him inside the spacious hotel room… an unmistakable archness to his demeanor.

“It would seem ‘doing nothing’ is more difficult than it appears.” He closes the door behind them and indicates another one just down the hall. “Bathroom’s there if you need the sink.”

Illya grunts in acknowledgement—an indelicate, but eloquent response—before he stalks off. He lets the frigid water numb his shaking hands, tries vainly to reconnect to his former sense of peace.

Deeming it a lost cause, but suitably calm now, Illya dries his hands and returns to the hotel’s sitting area. Waverly motions him to take one of the armchairs and hands him a freshly brewed cup of tea.

“Better?” he asks. The Englishman returns Illya’s nod with one of his own. “Good. Now, walk me through what happened.”

Illya huffs and focuses on holding his tea steady. He gives a halting account of his time on the bench… the agitation it provoked in him to be so idle, the acuteness of each energy he came in contact with. Every passerby, whether they acknowledged him or not, left some kind of mark on him.

There was a young couple who had fought, a child who had been scolded by his mother. A lost, lonely-looking man. A group of girls who spent nearly an hour gossiping: trading rumors and nursing their own wounds.

There had been people who had delighted in the cold and some who had reviled it. Some were ill or tired or hungry and nearly all were in a hurry—consumed with the burdens, real and imagined, of the coming day.

He had taken all of it in without a smokescreen of activity to distract him. He’d grit his teeth and balled his hands into fists until he couldn’t take it any longer and went off in search of Waverly.

His superior listens attentively, letting Illya speak in his own way and in his own time. After a couple moments of silence, he sets down his teacup and leans forward.

“I know it may not feel like it, Kuryakin, but this is progress. You’re becoming aware and that is _always_ the first step. What you noticed today is just how attuned you truly are to the energy around you. You absorb what you observe and you feel the effect of it long after these people leave.”

The teacup rattles in his hands, so he puts it down too. Waverly gives it a token of a glance before continuing on. “You noticed that everything you touch has traces of their most recent handler. That the emotions of everyone around you hangs in the air like a thundercloud.”

He pauses. “So, what you _need_ is a lightning rod.”

Waverly stands suddenly: a judge holding court over the Russian. Illya gets the chilling sense that his life is somehow hanging in the balance.

“You won’t always have Miss Teller—or even Solo—on hand to keep you grounded, so you’ll need to learn to do it yourself. That’s step one. Step two, as I’ve mentioned, is getting those shields, boundaries, what have you, up and running.”

He nods to himself. “We want you to be able to control not just what you _take in_ , but also what you put out.”

Illya swallows hard.

“Teach me,” he whispers. _“Please.”_

“Baby steps, Kuryakin. Go have a soak, get some dinner, and meet me at the same spot tomorrow morning.” He moves to hold the door open for him. “And try to have an answer for me by then.”

“About what?”

“What you could do to ground yourself.”

 

* * *

 

“I was thinking about what you said last night. About grounding.”

It is _all_ Illya has been able to think about since Waverly had dismissed him. His face is haggard, drawn from lack of sleep, but he feels certain in his answer.

“And?” the Englishman prompts him.

“I use chess,” he begins. “And water.”

His breath catches, a subtle warning against what he’s going to say next. Illya clears his throat, and, with a deep breath, carries on. “And I use my father’s watch.”

“Your touchstone, isn’t it?” the man asks him, nodding in approval. As if he’d been expecting that answer. He reaches out his hand. “May I?”

Illya involuntarily takes a step back, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he acquiesces. He slips the leather band free from its clasp and hands it to Waverly.

A memory of _another_ such time he’d had to forfeit the watch makes his jaw ache from clamping down so tightly. He breathes through his nose: short, tense bursts. Illya keeps his eyes trained on even the slightest movement from the Englishman as he inspects the timepiece.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is brusque, slightly hoarse. His throat seems to have shrunk to the size of a pinhole. Waverly holds the watch up, lets the sunlight dance across the glass face. An eternity later, he finally answers his question.

“I was going to put a charm on it. A protective enchantment.”

“But?”

“But it seems there already is.” Waverly shrugs. “Old magic, too, by the looks of it.”

Illya’s heart is beating wildly in his chest. He can’t keep the tremor from his voice as he asks, “My mother?”

“And your father, if I had to guess. She gave the watch to him, yes?”

Illya nods. “And he gave it to me. Right before… right before they took him.”

Waverly returns the watch to him, but rather than replacing it on his wrist right away, Illya holds it with a newfound reverence. He looks at it—perhaps for the first time.

“Can you feel it, Kuryakin? What your parents left you?”

Illya nods, not trusting himself to speak. Something warm and heartbreakingly familiar thrums under his fingertips.

Waverly smiles. “Good. It’s faint, but it’s there and no less powerful for the passage of time. Now, I want you to practice tuning in and out of that energy. See if it makes a difference while you’re out here.”

“And the shield?”

“Ah, yes. Almost forgot.” He ushers for Illya to take his seat on the bench. “Close your eyes,” he says. Illya’s eyelids flutter violently. It goes against all of his training to leave himself so vulnerable.

But rather than taking on a hard, militaristic edge, Waverly’s voice does the opposite. It softens, soothes him. “It’s only me. You’re safe.”

He waits patiently for several long minutes as Illya finally settles down. His eyes are closed, breathing steady and rhythmic.

“How is your Aura?”

Illya opens one eye to stare at the Englishman. He frowns. That was Cowboy’s realm, not his. “My _Aura?”_

“Eyes closed,” Waverly chides him. “Focus. What do you see?”

Illya’s brow furrows with concentration. His patience starts to wear thin and he can feel his fingers tapping in frustration.

 _“Nothing,”_ he grits out. “I see nothing.”

“Breathe, Kuryakin. Don’t force it. Just breathe.”

Illya turns his attention to his breath, evening them out and lessening his grip on the outcome of his task. Immediately, he starts to catch a glimpse of something red. He straightens in his seat.

“What do you see?”

“A light. Flickering. It’s all around me.”

“Good, good. Stay with that image. Is it intact?”

He shakes his head with a dawning sort of horror. His stomach twists as his Aura becomes clearer to him.

“No. There are tears. Holes.”

“And cords, too, only you probably can’t see them yet. But you feel them, don’t you?”

Illya grunts his acknowledgement. _How could any one person be so wounded?_ He wants to scream. _Is_ this _how he always is?_

“They represent the energetic connections you have. To the past, to people. Even the ones you don’t know. They _bind_ you to them.”

“How do I _get rid_ of them?” he growls, disgust and desperation in equal measure. He can almost feel the cords digging like nails into his skin, puncturing him like a pincushion. He shudders.

“You have to cut them. I’ll do it for you today, but eventually, you will be able to do it for yourself.”

While Illya keeps his eyes clenched shut, Waverly works on him, hands hovering a few inches from Illya’s body. He is only vaguely aware of a roaming, targeted heat—stronger than when Gaby had coaxed the intrusive energies from him. A tightening followed by a release. An absolution.

“Better?” the Englishman asks as Illya finally opens his eyes. He doesn’t wait for a response before he’s back in the role of instructor. “Focus again on your Aura. Should feel a lot cleaner and lighter, right?”

Illya nods, though he is a bit unsettled by its ragged appearance. Still so many tears gaping at him like open wounds.

He supposes, in a way, that that’s what they are.

“Now, _those_ were all cords you’ve picked up since your time in Friedrichsbad.” He chuckles at Illya’s incredulous expression. “Of course, there are some much stronger and much _older_ ones that can’t be severed in a single go. Can you see them now?”

_“Da.”_

“While we can’t do anything about them just yet, we _can_ patch up those holes and fortify those boundaries of yours. Picture a white light. Bright and warm and healing. Now, feel it surrounding your Aura—”

“The solution… is to use my imagination?”

Waverly sighs. “Does it _feel_ like you’re imagining it?”

“...No.”

“Then keep going. Let that light encompass you and fill in all those broken places. Expand it until you are fully surrounded by it.”

Illya huffs. “Like a bubble?”

“Like a bubble,” Waverly concedes. “Got it? Good. You’re all set.” He holds up a hand to ward off the onslaught of Illya’s questions.

“The watch and the white light, Kuryakin. Those are your tools. _Use them._ And remember: you are a _healer_ at heart.”

And with that, the man is gone.

 

* * *

 

Illya watches the people—fewer than yesterday—pass by with more curiosity than caution. He keeps a close eye on the soft white light surrounding him. It occasionally takes on a light shade of energy, but it soon dissipates.

His boundaries are holding firm and he slowly starts to believe in his own safety. The minutes tick by and Illya, ever-disciplined, regularly checks in on his Aura and the thrumming heartbeat of his watch.

The latter is infinitely more precious now that he knows that it is more than a physical reminder of his parents. That he carries a piece of them with him wherever he goes.

 _Like Gaby’s ring_ , he thinks.

Illya focuses as he tunes into the frequency of that little pearl. He smiles softly when he connects with the mechanic’s energy, but it drops as soon as he begins to read it. He senses her fatigue, the artificial, almost _feverish_ brightness engulfing her.

 _Stubborn woman_ , he thinks, a cocktail of fondness and exasperation. Gaby will push herself beyond her limits, too proud or too _defiant_ perhaps to even acknowledge she has any. He can see her now: smiling as she bleeds through her pointe shoes, insisting they rehearse the routine _just_ _one more time._

He tsks.

She is stubborn, but she is strong.

Illya frowns as he senses something else in her energy. He sifts through the insomnia, the fading pain in her solar plexus—he doesn’t remember that from before—and the strain, mental and physical, of being back behind the Curtain.

And, just on the periphery, there is a shadow.

A potentiality.

A threat.

 _Is she getting sick?_ he wonders. It doesn’t _seem_ overtly dangerous or even imminent, but he’ll monitor it nevertheless, wishing for the thousandth time that he were there in Berlin.

He has no doubt that Gaby and Cowboy can handle themselves—the pair could bring down entire regimes if they wanted to and _still_ have enough time to go out on the town and celebrate—but _he_ should be there with them.

He should be there to keep an eye on them and make sure that—

A high-pitched yelp startles him back to reality. Illya feels a sharp jab of pain in his ribs, flings his gaze wildly around the park to identify the source. A second cry and a more aggressive prodding.

Illya lurches to his feet. He sees the jeering tangle of children and catches a glimpse of the haggard-looking dog they’ve got cornered. There is malice radiating from them, a cruelty that rings through his ears.

The leader of this juvenile mob raises the stick over his head, evidently preparing to bring it crashing down on the beast. In one swift movement, Illya disarms the boy and twists his arm behind his back.

 _“Leave,”_ he hisses.

He shoves the boy away and the group scatters… their adrenaline rush setting his own heart racing. A cord—one for each child—sears into him. He stifles his gasp at the intensity of it.

Illya snaps the stick in half and tosses it aside. He kneels down to inspect the frightened, wounded creature. Its hair is thick and matted, teeth bared pathetically, eyes intelligent, but distrustful.

He makes no effort to reach out to touch the dog, but watches him in silence. Waverly’s words echo back to him and he nods, carefully extending his energy to the dog’s.

Immediately, the dog seems to relax. It pants heavily, lies down before him. It is instinct that drives Illya to extend his hand slowly. He doesn’t touch the dog or fully understand just _what_ is happening, but he begins sending a calming, healing energy towards it.

The dog’s pain and fear dissipate and Illya’s own second-hand emotions along with it. He realizes with a start that there is something… different about the creature before him. It may be appearing to him as a dog, but there’s an element of _fey_ within it.

When he is sure the dog is well (or, at least, well enough), Illya rises to his feet. He nods politely at the stray and returns to his bench, caught off-guard when it pads after him.

Illya takes a seat, starting to feel shaky. The riot of emotions he’d absorbed from the children seems to have breached his boundaries. He feels compromised, overwhelmed, energetic cords tightening like nooses around him.

Before he can even think to tune into his watch, the dog has appeared before him. It lifts a heavy paw and places it on Illya’s arm. Even through the thick coat he’s wearing, Illya can feel the heat emanating from the dog’s touch.

And, as with Waverly earlier, the cords begin to dissolve. Illya stares at the dog in astonishment as he begins to ground himself and re-establish his boundaries.

The dog withdraws it paw and with its own sort of nod, curls up at Illya’s feet. There he remains until the Englishman arrives. The dog stands and gracefully walks away. When Illya turns to look, he seems to have vanished into thin air.

“I see you found yourself a companion,” Waverly comments. “An excellent one too.”

“It _healed_ me.”

Illya still can’t wrap his head around it. A chance encounter, perhaps a fated one. A Being in disguise who had blessed him.

“Returning the favor, I’m sure,” he says, smiling. “That was no ordinary dog you met.”

“What was it?”

The Englishman shakes his head slightly. Whether intentionally vague or genuinely at a loss, Illya can’t tell, but takes some comfort in the fact.

“All I can tell you is that this _isn’t_ the last we’ll be seeing of him.”  


	8. Chapter 8

Gaby falls onto the threadbare sofa with a theatrical groan. Her feet ache and she can hardly remember ever being so tired. The rehearsals would be grueling even if she _could_ go home and rest like a normal person.

Instead, she’s been working in the garage until the early hours of the morning. _One more week,_ she reminds herself. _Just one more week to go._

Solo, for his part, has played her dutiful assistant every night… his hands and clothing eternally (and mysteriously) immaculate. She wonders, briefly, if the man is simply _immune_ to the grease and the grime, the dust of everyday existence.

_Maybe he has powers I don’t know about._

“Come on, little elf,” he says, prodding her prone form with his foot. ‘The shoemakers are expecting us.”

She groans louder into her pillow.

“Gaby,” he chides her. “Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”

She reluctantly rolls onto her back where the American waves a bottle of wine at her temptingly. He helps her to her feet, bundling her unceremoniously in her coat and scarf, knit cap jammed carelessly onto her head.

Gaby hadn’t even protested when he’d insisted on driving. Instead, she had dozed against the window until she could feel the cars humming at her in welcome. Even the Russian cars had begun to warm to her: in a curt, but fond sort of way.

Their brisk mannerisms and determination to be back in commission reminded her of _another_ Russian…

Gaby and Solo enter the garage and are greeted by the low lights from three lanterns. The mechanics had begun leaving them on for their mysterious benefactors, as well as providing flashlights.

Her coworkers must have guessed, however impossible it seemed, that she was the one tending to their fleet. Gaby Schmidt back from the dead or a _Stasi_ fugitive.

A benevolent spirit now perhaps.

They had found their ways to express their gratitude.

Her tools would be laid out and organized _just_ the way she liked it. The men had even taken to tidying their workstations before going home for the night... as if they could hear her scolding them about it again.

Tonight, she finds a bottle of her favorite vodka hidden beneath the chassis of a particularly stubborn (and talkative) Moskvich. She smiles and shows it to Solo who scares up a couple of clean glasses… from where, she doesn’t know.

She raises her glass in a mock toast before knocking it back. It burns against her throat and she grins, slides back under the car.

Between Solo and the Moskvich, Gaby rarely has time to get a word in. It doesn’t matter, though. She is lost in the flow of her work, barking out orders to the American every so often like a surgeon around the operating table.

He’ll pass her the requisite tool—he’s getting quite good at distinguishing them now—and regale her with stories to pass the time. During their breaks, he’ll unroll his bundle of lock-picking equipment and they’ll compare the tools of their trade.

Solo has her practice on the locked drawers and toolboxes in the garage, on the cars themselves. The Soviet-made Volga snorts at her in disapproval and what she imagines is a roll of its headlights, but he always cooperates… humming when she does well, huffing when she does not.

 _The Blue Peril_ , Solo calls the car. Needless to say, the Volga does not much care for the American.

That same vehicle’s energy reaches out to her now, like an insistent tugging on her sleeve. Gaby sighs. _Wait your turn,_ she scolds. He withdraws, from her definitely _not_ sulking.

 _Don’t be jealous,_ she tells him, but softens a little. _I’ll be there soon._

The Volga is the _de facto_ leader of her ‘infirmary’. He—when did she start referring to him as _he_ , she wonders—keeps the other cars in line and prevents them from monopolizing too much of her attention.

Like the Moskvich.

Gaby only half-listens as it rambles on about its owners, where it’s been, and what it’s seen. The memories play like a movie before her eyes and she nods politely, passively.

The montage cuts out suddenly when music begins playing.

Gaby slides out from under the car and rises to her feet. She stares over at where Solo has discovered a record player. Something classical and soothing plays softly and she smiles, wanders over to where he is.

It had been a big enough risk to smuggle this in here… she won’t complain about the music selection. There’s a certain smugness radiating from the Volga.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” she asks out loud. Solo looks between the car and mechanic with a knowing smirk.

“Found it hidden inside.”

Gaby smoothes her hand over the car’s deep blue bonnet. A self-conscious pride hums beneath her touch. “Well, then, thank you.”

She flexes her feet and dances _en pointe_ over to Solo. He hands her a fresh glass of vodka and puts on a new record: still Party-approved, but more upbeat. Better for dancing.

Solo seems to have read her mind because he sets down her empty glass and offers her his hand. They dance together and she can feel her spirit soar, soaking in the music and the companionship and the _atmosphere_ of this space.

Something about the garage always makes her feel better. She’s glad Solo hadn’t stopped her from coming here, grateful for his help, but mainly, for his presence.

They have an easy camaraderie both on and off the clock: an unlikely friendship that has only deepened over time. _What an odd pair we make_ , she thinks. The suave gentleman thief. The rough-and-tumble _Ossi_ mechanic. American and German. War profiteer and war orphan.

They complement and contradict, but are well-suited to the other. He is the family she has never had, and, in this moment, that is all she needs. Something or _someone_ stable and there for her in this ever-changing place.

“Solo?” she asks into his shoulder.

He hums in acknowledgement.

There are so many things she wants to tell him. So many parts of her she’s ready to share, to reveal to the friend who doesn’t press for details—he has his own share of secrets locked away. Instead, Gaby merely smiles and says the only thing that matters.

“Thank you.”

They dance and drink and trade stories until the sun begins to rise.

 

* * *

 

Nora approaches her a few nights later. She makes a show of appraising Gaby, clicks her tongue in approval.

“You’re looking well,” she tells her. “What’s your secret?”

_“Secret?”_

The brunette nods as she hands Gaby her water. “You’re _here_ . Back behind the Iron Curtain and yet… you seem _content._ How?”

Gaby gulps down her drink, drags the back of her hand over her mouth. The question startles her. _What_ is _her secret?_

The garage appears before her eyes like a vision. She tenses. The restorative powers of her work, her relationships with the cars and mechanics and Solo—all of it suddenly too precious and personal to share.

Gaby looks at Nora and shrugs. “Call it a hobby.”

Jannick materializes just then. He leans against the stage, blue eyes nearly dazzling in the semi-darkness.

“You think your hobby could take a night off?” He grins. “There’s a bar nearby. _Very_ exclusive. Might be a nice change of pace.”

Gaby hesitates. Solo is out pounding the pavement, chasing down a new lead. This is the first time he’s left her side around the two sleeper agents. He won’t be expected back to the apartment for another few hours.

She could have it both ways. Go to the nightclub _and_ return home in time to greet Solo. Nothing would be amiss and he would be none the wiser.

A strange, little voice sounds in her head: a thrilling, dangerous thought that sends a shiver of excitement down her spine.

_What Solo doesn’t know won’t hurt him._

Gaby looks between her old friends and finally nods.

“All right,” she relents. “But only for a couple hours.”

 

* * *

 

The bar is exactly what she would expect from an underground _Ossi_ establishment: a modest front leading into a shabby interior… where a secret door awaits.

Gaby follows Jannick and Nora down the narrow staircase and steps into the bewildering heat and excess of the makeshift nightclub. While the two women jockey for space around one of the tall, round tables, Jannick goes to get drinks.

Her dark eyes are wide with wonder at this incredible tableau. The lounge is packed to capacity and thrumming with a thousand types of glamour. Music swirls around her—a siren song that only Illya could resist.

When Jannick arrives, she quickly downs her drink and pulls them both to the dancefloor. It is too loud to talk, too crowded to _breathe_ , but Gaby surrenders to the throng and the conviction they radiate.

Their freedom, their rebellion, their _honesty_ pouring from them as they move. _Solo would love this place,_ she thinks. She can hardly imagine what it would look like to him… an aggressive watercolor of Auras or a mosaic.

He could draw energy from the crowds and they would willingly offer it to him. A community of strangers, buoyed and emboldened by their shared struggle. A pang of guilt runs through her that he should miss out on this experience.

Between the reckless abandon of the dancefloor and the careless indulgence of the bar, Gaby loses all sense of time, then later, all sense of reality.

It is heady, intoxicating, and she feels she could live in this moment forever. Perhaps she already has. It sure feels that way.

Her consciousness seems to thicken… sight and sound out of sync and her thoughts a distant echo in a dark recess of her mind. She stumbles forward. Jannick catches her and he pulls her out of the crowds.

It is like being plunged into ice water.

Gaby shivers and gulps down the fresh air greedily. She blinks rapidly, trying to refocus her vision, dimly aware of Jannick’s hand on her shoulder—the heat of it bleeding through her clothes, electrifying her skin.

He says something to Nora and she nods. Together, they escort her back upstairs and into the blistering starkness of life in the GDR. The world around her seems so much harsher, colder now that she has left the club.

She halts in her tracks, staring out vacantly, uncomprehendingly.

“Come on, Gaby,” Nora says, ushering her to keep moving. Her eyes are darting at shadows, a familiar fear—of being caught, of being cornered—piercing through the darkness.

“You’re staying with me tonight.”

 

* * *

 

It is well after midnight when Solo arrives back at the apartment. The lead had turned up nothing… though he hadn’t expected it would. Still, it was a welcome variation from his typical routine here.

Not that he’s complaining.

There is something thrilling about watching Gaby dance with her former ballet company. From his designated spot in the audience, he would watch these young men and women come alive in the most extraordinary ways.

Solo knows first-hand the transformative power of the arts, but this has been something else entirely. The dancers would arrive, their Auras grayed and world-weary, before bursting to life like fireworks: dazzling and vibrant, but transient.

At the end of the day, exhaustion and reality would sink back in and they would all fade back to their respectable, muted palettes.

All that is, except Gaby.

The American had recognized early on just _how_ important the garage was for her well-being. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but the place (or maybe the work itself) seems to mitigate whatever darkness is eating away at her.

The longer she spends away from the garage, the more the balance shifts in favor of the shadows. He doesn’t want to scare her, to admit that this unknown, lurking force scares _him_ , and he knows only too well how imposing demands on her will end.

As such, Solo makes an adventure of these trips for her. He gentles her leaden body back into their Trabi and takes her to the garage, weaving fantastical (if, admittedly, _derivative)_ stories to entertain and revive her.

When they arrive, he involves her in conjuring up future missions to complete together—each more extravagant and esoteric than the last—and allows her to indulge herself: with vodka, with music, with fanciful dreams of the future.

Gaby is like a phoenix reborn on those occasions… and _that_ is why he insists she go to the garage, even in the event that he can’t join her.

Should he be surprised, then, that the mechanic hadn’t listened to him?

Solo does a scan of the apartment. The only traces of Gaby’s Auras are from this morning. She hasn’t been back here since.

Out of obligation more than optimism, he races down the stairs and heads to the garage.

He had expected to find the place deserted.

He hadn’t expected to find it _empty._

There are no lanterns waiting for him when he enters the cavernous space. It doesn’t matter. The moon’s steady beams and the flickering starlight reveals everything he needs to see. It chills him more than he would care to admit.

There are no cars inside. No signs of life or signs that there ever had been. Not a trace of the garage or its workers is left… only a stained floor, broken windows, and the faint, lingering smell of motor oil.

The _Stasi’s_ doing, if he had to guess.

It is a miracle, if an oddly _convenient_ one, that Gaby should not have come here tonight.

There aren’t that many places where she could be—and only two other people who would be with her. Solo closes his eyes and breathes deeply, willing himself to stay patient. He rakes a hand through his hair and prepares, for the second time that day, to hit the streets.

It takes him a couple of hours, but he finds it.

The bar, cleverly concealed by glamour, but unmistakable to a person of his talents. The explosive outpouring of energy radiates under his feet as he susses out the hidden door. It is impossible to distinguish the Auras there, but here, in this rarefied, though common air, he can sense her faintly… as well as Jannick and Nora.

With any luck, the three of them would still be down below. If not, he’ll have no choice but to wait at the Opera House and hope Gaby arrives with the two sleeper agents the next morning.

 

* * *

 

It’s not the first all-nighter Solo has pulled and it will be far from the last, but even _he_ is feeling a sense of lethargy kick in… as if someone is perhaps targeting him too. He is quick to dismiss the idea and continues his vigil over the Opera House entrance.

Like clockwork, the trio in question arrives. Jannick in the lead with the keys, Nora supporting Gaby’s weight close behind. The mechanic is bleary-eyed, Aura startlingly erratic, and dressed in the other woman’s clothing.

Clearly, they hadn’t had time to stop by her apartment.

Solo steps swiftly out of the shadows and gracefully unhooks Gaby from Nora’s shoulders and supports the mechanic himself. She leans against him, stumbling slightly as he guides her onto the stage.

None of them speaks. In fact, the three of them, are consciously avoiding his eyes. _Fine._ If they want to act like children, then so be it.

Solo deposits Gaby onto a chair and hands her her pointe shoes—the ones he went back to the apartment at the crack of dawn for.

“You know, a simple note would have sufficed,” he mutters into her ear. When she makes no attempt to move or even speak, he kneels before and changes her shoes for her himself, taking extra care when he ties the ribbons.

“I was out all night looking for you.” He deliberates for a moment, before dousing her with the truth. Like coffee. Or gasoline. “The garage is gone, Gaby. All of it.”

Her unfocused eyes sharpen and she flinches visibly. The color drains from her cheeks as she clutches his arm.

“And the mechanics? Are they…?”

“I don’t think they went home for the holidays.”

Gaby’s head bows with guilt and grief. He can see it throbbing in her Aura, even under that veneer of composure. Jannick calls for rehearsal to begin and she woodenly rises to her feet, takes her place at center stage.

Rather than take his normal seat in the audience, Solo instead settles into the mechanic’s newly-vacated chair. The music strikes up and he watches her with an anxious intensity.

 _Something_ isn’t right with her.

He reads it in her body language, sees it in her eyes, her Aura, but he can’t place it. Looking at her is like staring into a black hole: darkening, hollow, and relentless.

Again and again, Jannick puts her through her paces and, each time, the energy around her seems to become more and more volatile.

 _Does the man not sense it? He_ has _to._

There is a shattering moment of calm—a clarity that breaks through whatever spell is upon her—before her knees buckle and she pitches forward.

Solo is by her side in an instant, hauling Jannick off of her. He positions himself between the two of them.

 _“Get back,”_ he orders. “I don’t want you or anyone else here to touch her.”

“But Mr. Deveney—”

Solo’s voice takes on a menacing edge as he draws himself to his full height. His words are razor-sharp and brook no argument. “I’m not letting _any_ of you come near her until  tonight.”

Jannick stares at him in disbelief.

“You can _hardly_ expect her to dance after this. I know it’s not ideal, Mr. Deveney, but Gaby is in no condition to perform. _Let her rest._ Nora can cover the role for her.”

“That would certainly be to your advantage, wouldn’t it?”

Jannick takes a step forward, gearing up for a fight. His hands are balling into fists, his voice rasping with anger. “Whatever it is you’re insinuating, I—”

“That’s _enough._ ” Nora’s voice rings through the theatre. Stern. Authoritative. She puts her hand on Jannick’s chest, forcing him back a few inches. “Gaby needs help more than she needs you two arguing.”

She picks up Gaby’s shoes and hands them to Solo with a sharp nod.

“We’ll see you both at our call time, Mr. Deveney.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby is barely hanging onto consciousness when he pulls up to her apartment. He cradles her in his arms and carries her up the stairs, mercifully without being spotted by any of her former neighbors.

He lays her down gently in her bed and deftly slips off her shoes, before fetching a glass of water for her. Solo supports her as she drinks, feeling her fever radiating through her clothes. He swears softly and goes to wet a washcloth in the sink, wringing out the icy excess.

Solo smoothes it over her forehead, her neck, her arms, doing what he can to cool her off. She murmurs in incoherent German, eyelids fluttering rapidly. When the shaking begins a few minutes later, he has to pin her down to keep her from hurting herself.

Gaby’s thrashing shifts the chain around her neck, exposing the bugged engagement ring Peril had given her in Rome. He releases one of her arms—a calculated risk—so he can undo the clasp.

Solo narrowly avoids a broken nose as he returns his weight to the offending limb, the little ring digging into his palm.

 _Illya,_ he repeats over and over, _if you can hear me, Gaby’s hurt. We_ need _help._

Distress signals go out in every language and every variation he knows: to Peril, to Waverly, to anyone or any _thing_ that could help him. He’s sure the Russian can feel it, can feel the change in her energy even without the ring. But he’s not taking any chances.

When her convulsions subside, Solo pulls up a chair beside her and prays that someone, somewhere has heard his call for help.


	9. Chapter 9

Each day, Illya trains with Waverly, and, each day, the stakes are raised.

He has long since graduated from passive observation to a much more active engagement. The Englishman sends him out into the thicks of crowds, onto packed trains, and around schools. Illya goes to the gym and the library and other such communal spaces, those whose offerings pass through multiple hands.

He spends his days awash in humanity, adrift in a sea of energy and emotion. He sees _Captain Sindbad_ at a local movie theatre—and learns he absorbs even what the characters are experiencing.

The plot, in Illya’s expert Soviet opinion, is a travesty, the characters absurd, but the depiction of true-love-against-all-odds gets him thinking… enough to give the film a second (and maybe a fourth) valuation.

Time thus passes in quick, dreamlike succession: an extended trial-by-fire that leaves him little time to think of anything else: not of Cowboys or Nutcrackers or Chop Shop Ballerinas. And, like a dream as well, that mysterious dog visits him.

Curious and ancient eyes seem to follow Illya all the while throughout the sprawling town. And, when he is bearing the weight of the human condition, straining like Atlas himself, he will see the dog’s dark outline in the shadows, urging and encouraging him to _endure._

One morning, after a particularly grueling few days, Illya had jostled his way through hordes of commuters to board the northbound _Deutsche Bahn_. There, on the now-deserted platform, the dog had sat, raising his front paw to him as a send-off.

The tightness in Illya’s chest had immediately lessened and the cords released their hold on him. He had sighed at the sensation… and opened his eyes to discover the dog had vanished.

Illya has not seen him since, though he has a strong Knowing that he will again soon. The where and the how will not surprise him.

Only the why.

With that thought in mind, Illya joins Waverly at the scene of his final test. A culmination of all he has learned, a quagmire of stress and pain and fear.

A hospital.

“Few places more likely to overwhelm you,” the Englishman told him. “It’s not a simulation of being in the field. No, this _is_ the field.”

A muscle tics in Illya’s jaw. He already feels the onslaught of misery, the second-hand suffering of the loved ones looking on. An insurmountable dread. He swallows thickly.

“Sir, what do you want me to do?”

“What you were born to do.”

They exchange a look. Illya shakes his head, his feet already beginning their retreat from this bland, crowded waiting room: physically and aesthetically sterile, but contaminated everywhere else by a hemorrhaging of countless, psychic wounds.

“You want me to heal them. I—I’m not a doctor.”

“And _those_ ,” he says, pointing to the double doors and the arena of life and death that lay beyond, “are not your patients. Look around you, Kuryakin. If you can’t help in the operating room, then you can help _here._ ”

Waverly gestures at the tight huddles of families, the anxious lovers, the handful of souls braving this ordeal alone. “There are people here who need you.”

With a pat on the back, the Englishman throws Illya to the wolves.

Illya takes a deep breath: flexing his fingers and breathing new strength into his Aura. He cautiously approaches an elderly woman weeping in a corner. She shrinks away from him when he approaches, trying to curl in on herself.

He stills his flinch and puts on a smile instead. Illya kneels before the woman so that he can look into her red-rimmed eyes. He holds her gaze steadily and tries to communicate _on any level_ that he is not a threat.

She seems to understand for she sits up again and doesn’t recoil when he slowly lifts his hand. Illya doesn’t have Solo’s gift of Persuasion, but he does his best to warm and sweeten his voice.

“Excuse me, dear. May I…?”

The woman nods imperceptibly and accepts Illya’s hand. Immediately, he is flooded with her terror, her rheumatism, the traumas of her past. He gasps and settles into her energy, infusing her with courage and a sense of peace.

She grips his hand with a startling strength and accepts the healing he offers. Illya soothes the frayed nerves and calms the racing mind. _A balm, but not a cure,_ he hears Waverly saying. He talks to her softly in German, reassuring her with his touch and words.

He lets go of her only when her bony hand moves to cover his and she thanks him in stilted Russian. He huffs, a broad, gratified smile on his face, and makes his way to the next person.

Illya repeats the ritual again and again, miraculously finding that it _energizes_ him rather than draining him. He draws comfort from his father’s watch and the blessings his parents left him,  shielding himself with the white light and severing any negative energies that latch onto him.

He is attuned to himself and to his ministry. He feels invincible.

Until the dog materializes at his side and presses a freezing paw onto Illya’s leg.

He hisses at the bitter chill that shudders through him, eyes shrinking to pinpricks as he connects with his partners’ energies.

Cowboy is brimming with anger, uncertainty, and fear. It’s unmistakable. And Gaby. Her Aura is more shadow than energy.

Illya is on his feet and sprinting to the doors. He nearly collides with Waverly, who pulls him by the arm to the idling Wartburg out front.

“Get in the car, Kuryakin.”

The tires screech as they drive off—the harsh staccato of a dog barking still ringing in their ears.

 

* * *

 

It takes Illya a few seconds to get his bearings, several more before he can manage to speak. It is for the best, then, that he isn’t driving. He turns to the Englishman whose breakneck speeds and tight turns could give even Gaby a run for her money.

“Premonition?”

Waverly nods. “Seems your companion beat me to the punch. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. Just that we need to _be there._ Your bags are packed. You’ll need to change when we arrive. For _now,_ though, I need you to stay calm.”

A vague awareness dawns on Illya. His hands are shaking… but so is his whole body. Violent tremors that could make the car rock back-and-forth if he doesn’t control it. His head is screaming with pain.

Or maybe _he_ is.

It’s getting harder and harder to differentiate. Not when the American’s nearly unflappable composure is raw with worry and the mechanic is fading fast—almost unreachable now.

 _“Gaby,”_ he grits out.

Waverly glances over at him. “I know what she means to you, Kuryakin. I’ve known since Rome and I care about her too.”

The pronouncement knocks Illya temporarily off-guard, enough for the Englishman to get through to him in this hazy state. “But it’s not going to help her or Solo or any of us if you can’t get a hold of yourself.”

 _That_ snaps him out of his trance.

Illya’s eyes slam shut as he concentrates. His Aura (and his _heart)_ feel like they’re being shredded to ribbons. His breathing is labored, still wildly erratic.

“I—I can’t block it,” he cries, a paroxysm of hysteria—not entirely his own—coloring his voice. He shudders, tries to dislodge the rising panic.

“Then _don’t._ ” Waverly arches a brow at him. “If you can’t heal her from here, can you figure out what’s causing it?”

“It’s an… it’s an _attack._ Psychic attack.”

“Who’s sending it?”

Frustration spasms through his fingers as he shakes his head slowly from side to side. “I won’t know until I get there.”

“Then we had better hurry.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby’s Aura is nearly swallowed up by the vast expanse of gray, the horrifying streaks of black that seem to marble it.

Solo is desperate.

He doesn’t take energy from individuals and _never_ to heal them, but he can’t afford to wait any longer. Gaby doesn’t have much time.

His mouth sets in a grim line as he starts to pull at the foreign energy. It shudders through him, but he continues on. She moans softly, her head tossing from side to side and his breath hitches with it.

It’s not his best work by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls on her already thinned Aura a few too many times, but, if the mechanic isn’t getting better, then, at least, she’s not getting any worse.

Solo jumps when he hears a soft _woof_ behind him.

 

* * *

 

“How are we doing, Kuryakin?”

It’s been three hours since they left Baden-Baden. Even with Waverly’s driving, they’ll only barely make it in time for the show.

Illya has had enough time to adjust to the triune onslaught of energy: his partners’ and the attacker’s. Though far from fine, he is at least functional.

“Cowboy is with her. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.” A sharp ache in his solar plexus sets his eyelids fluttering. He grunts. “He’s trying to… extract it from her. Or drain the sender.”

Illya tsks. “He’s sloppy. Inefficient.”

“Is Gaby all right though?”

He shakes his head, feels the words sink like stones in his stomach to anchor him to his failure, however irrational.

“Not yet.”

Illya lurches forward, bracing himself against the dash. He looks around the car wildly, uncomprehendingly, a ragged breath escaping him. Waverly’s words buzz around his ears, but he can’t make sense of them.

“It’s _stopped,”_ he gasps. “The attack. It hasn’t been withdrawn, it’s been _stopped._ ”

He leans back against his seat, relief coursing through him, washing everything else away. “Gaby’s weak, but she’s not suffering.”

Waverly nods, his forehead still creased with worry. “Solo’s doing?”

“No. This is fey.”

The two men exchange a look.

“The dog,” they say together.

Waverly tilts his wrist on the steering wheel to get a better look at his watch. He hums shortly, blue eyes flicking briefly to the darkening sky.

“We’re about an hour or so out. Let’s hope your partners can manage until then.”

 

* * *

 

The American stares slack-jawed at the fey creature, at the canine form it has assumed. It inclines its head at him,  a bow or a nod, and Solo returns the gesture. They turn as one to look at Gaby.

She is drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, but the struggle is over. Her Aura glows like a small, orange fire around her—faint, but steady. He just about falls to his knees: in gratitude or relief, it hardly matters.

The dog pierces him with its gaze and there’s something oddly familiar about it. For a brief second, Solo sees blue in those dark eyes and _knows_ that somehow, Peril is involved.

Gaby stirs and his attention snaps instinctively towards her. He grasps her hand as she blinks slowly up at him.

“Gaby? Gaby, can you hear me?”

She nods slowly. Her lips form words, but no sound comes out. He nods, knowing what her question was.

“You were under attack. And _have been_ since we got here. But I don’t think it’s come entirely from the Wall.”

“THRUSH?”

“If it is,” he says, grimly, “then our covers may already be blown.”

Gaby tries to prop herself up, but falls back with a gasp. Solo’s hand slides behind her shoulders as he helps her sit upright.

“I _need_ to dance tonight.”

“You need to _rest.”_ He holds up his hand in a placating gesture. “Save your strength for your big debut.”

Gaby smiles weakly and sinks back against the pillow. “Are you going to bring me flowers tonight?”

“What kind of patron would I be if I didn’t?”

She huffs out a laugh before turning serious. “Thank you, Solo. I—I wouldn’t want to be here without you.”

Solo nods, an unusual tightness in his chest. He pats her hand fondly.

“Get some rest.”

When he turns to leave, he realizes that the dog has long since disappeared.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank you all again for taking the time to read this. Your interest and support means the absolute world! Enjoy the final chapter and have a wonderful Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and/or other Winter Holidays! <3
> 
> Thank you for sharing in this adventure with me. More content will be coming soon!

Gaby looks like a queen when she enters the Opera House: head held high with defiant dignity. Solo holds the door for her, ever the faithful steward.

She sweeps down the red carpet—a fitting image for Berlin’s newest star. The whole ballet company turns to look at her, completely mesmerized. Gaby ignores their wide eyes as she ascends the stage, deigning to give a curt nod to Jannick.

Nora approaches her and Her Majesty’s procession comes to a halt. Solo hovers just over her shoulder as the other woman begins to speak.

“Gaby, dear, how are you feeling?”

“I’m ready to dance if that’s what you’re asking.”

Her demeanor is exceptionally cool, having heeded Solo’s warning to not trust _anybody_ at this point. Everyone's a suspect, though, she knows who Solo has pegged.

Gaby smiles thinly. Dismissive. “I should start getting ready.”

“I’d offer to help, but I think I already know the answer,” Nora says with a quick glance to Solo. He nods.

“Necessary precaution. You understand, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmurs, before turning to Gaby. “Break a leg.”

Solo shadows the mechanic to her dressing room. He stands guard outside until she summons him inside. He whistles softly when he sees her.

Gaby is in a simple, but becoming white dress with silvery-blue accents at the sleeves and waist. A graceful silhouette that conveys a playful sort of innocence. He hums in approval.

“You look lovely,” he says, before adding _sotto voce_ , “if a little long in the tooth.”

“Solo!”

He laughs at her indignation. “How old is your character again? Nine, ten, eleven years old?”

“She’s a _young woman_ ,” Gaby says with a huff. “Most ‘Claras’ are played by teenagers. _Late_ teenagers.”

“Hate to break it to you, Gaby, but I believe that ship has sailed. And sailed a long time ago.”

“I have youthful features,” she insists with an imperious toss of her hair. It does nothing to soften Solo’s grin.

“Glad to see that baby face of yours finally coming in handy.”

His laugh is cut short by a well-placed elbow to the ribs. He grunts, holds his hands up in surrender.

“You make a very beautiful Clara,” he soothes her. “Now will you _please_ let me do something about your hair?”

 

* * *

 

The Wartburg is met with no resistance as they enter the GDR. Even if Illya were not the KGB’s top agent and Waverly did not have an impressive assortment of papers, endorsements, and, of course, immunity, they weren’t likely to have had any troubles.

There is a permeability to the border tonight: the West has a one-night opportunity to see East Berlin in its dawning splendor. The multinational production of _The Nutcracker—_ for an audience of dignitaries on both sides of the Wall—is their _piece de resistance._

Illya ducks into an alleyway to hurriedly change into his suit. It is by no means an ideal location, but it is infinitely preferable to the tight confines of the Wartburg.

The two men soon arrive at the Berlin State Opera House. He can instantly feel Gaby and Cowboy’s presence inside. His heart begins thundering wildly.

It will be good to see them both.

He frowns, a stab of worry for the mechanic. She has regained some of her strength, but the performance tonight might be too much for her. He should know by now, though, that _nothing_ will stop her from completing the mission.

Illya doesn’t know whether to smile or roll his eyes at that.

_Stubborn woman._

As soon as they step into the lobby, Illya is engulfed in the hurricane of patrons and diplomats: dizzy with a riot of perfumes and languages. Waverly pulls him to a secluded corner and presses a ticket — _his_ ticket—into Illya’s hand.

“I’ve got a box reserved,” he says as explanation. “Perfect place to see the stage and our _other_ esteemed guests. Try not to spend _too much_ time watching Miss Teller.”

Illya’s mouth opens but no sound comes out. He clears his throat, tries to recover some of his dignity. “I’m supposed to cover the backstage.”

“Change of plans.”

The Englishman pulls his coat open just enough to reveal the modified Walther P38 inside. He smiles wryly.

“I’ll have you know, Kuryakin, that I’m more than just a pretty face.”

 

* * *

 

Illya enters the private box, taking a moment to peer over the polished railing. Waverly was right. He has a perfect vantage point of the stage and their persons of interest—potential targets or perpetrators.

He takes a moment to assess and reinforce his Aura before sifting through the energies around him: the high-voltage nerves of the performers, the wary intrigue of the Western diplomats, the mounting anticipation of the rest of the audience.

Illya is grateful for the partitions around him. They have a dampening effect that makes the influx easier to manage.

He starts when he snags on something familiar.

There is a glimpse of blue at the bottom of the stage… though he doesn’t recognize the suit, Illya would know that man anywhere. He frowns.

There is a tautness to Cowboy’s expression, a rigid set to his shoulders.

Unlike him to look so ill at ease.

Illya connects with the American’s energy and he freezes, mid-steep. Cowboy’s eyes scan the boxes and alight on the Russian’s. He nods slightly before disappearing from view up the carpeted aisle.

He will cover the front of the house, Illya and Gaby the audience, and Waverly, the backstage. All bases covered. Together again.

The lights begin to dim and Illya hastens to take his seat.

 

* * *

 

The curtain rises on a sweeping set: a cozy-looking parlor with a beautiful Christmas tree in the middle. Men and women adding candles and decorations. The Stahlbaum ‘children’ entering as a march begins and the celebration begins in earnest.

Illya nearly stops breathing when he sees her: the knee-length dress with the ruffled sleeves, dark hair in its usual ponytail, but with its ends elaborately curled and her bangs pinned back. There is a sweet, sharp aching in his chest.

He has missed her.

The gleaming grandmother clock strikes eight and his thoughts begin to turn, unbidden, to the woodworking shop in Baden-Baden. His body hums with a nostalgic sort of longing, a wistfulness for the life he can never have.

It is almost _painful_ to watch the domestic bliss before him, so he focuses on the audience instead. He spies the Russian Minister of Culture and a handful of his associates, as well as an assortment of Western diplomats.

Nothing seems to be amiss, so he allows himself to watch the ballet.

Illya smiles as he watches Gaby dance with her wooden nutcracker: her exuberant joy at the gift, her tender regard for something so easily dismissed by the others.

His heart breaks along with hers when the Fritz character—a thoughtless, careless _oaf_ of a boy—snatches it from her hands and essentially fractures its jaw. Gaby ( _Clara,_ he reminds himself) takes the blue ribbon from her hair and uses it to bind the nutcracker’s injury. She lays him gently on a makeshift bed

Illya is pondering whether it is jealousy or _kinship_ he feels with the production’s eponym when the clock strikes midnight. ‘Clara’ wakes with a jolt to find the tree and the toys and the room growing right before her eyes.

It is a beautiful bit of glamour, but it’s masking something. And, going by the anxious edge to Clara’s wide-eyed bewilderment… Gaby senses it too.

The Mouse King advances with his army and the Nutcracker martials his own unit of Toy Soldiers. Gaby is caught up in the thick of the battle and, though she hides it well, he can tell her panic isn’t entirely an act.

He senses the shadow again, coming at her in waves. Illya stiffens in his seat, reaching his energy out to Gaby’s. For the barest moment, they lock eyes, before she goes to rescue her Nutcracker.

Overwhelmed with emotion and the extraordinary spectacle of the past few minutes, Gaby/Clara collapses back onto the bed, which rises higher and higher and turns into a sleigh. The Nutcracker too is transformed into a Prince.

Illya stares out at the tall man with blond hair and blue eyes who now joins Gaby on the sleigh and concedes that maybe, _just_ maybe he could be jealous.

The shadow recedes as the snowflakes turn to dancing maidens and the curtain falls on the ballet’s first act.

 

* * *

 

Gaby beats a hasty retreat to her dressing room. She is slightly shaken, both from the attack and the realization that _Illya is here._

That can’t be a good sign, having him called back into the field.

Gaby takes a sip of water and tunes into his energy—much easier now than when she’d tried in the Black Forest. His Aura seems to jump at the contact, before settling down. It hums a welcome to her and it feels like a caress.

She gets a sudden image of searching blue eyes, feels the phantom weight of his hands on her shoulders.

 _Are you okay?_ it seems to ask.

Gaby closes her eyes and nods, enveloping herself in his energy like a hug.

She is now.

 

* * *

 

Solo hears the music strike up again as Act Two commences. He checks his watch and sighs. He is tucked away into a two-way mirror of an alcove. He can see everyone who comes and goes without being spotted.

In a way, he is grateful to be out here in the lobby. As much as he loves to watch Gaby dance and to celebrate this occasion with her, he has seen the performance in its entirety enough times to reasonably dance it himself.

No, he is content to be on the outside.

Solo catches himself humming along as the minutes whirl by. He’s sure “Clara” has reached the Land of Sweets by now. There, Nora’s Sugar Plum Fairy will throw a multicultural festival in her honor—a celebration of Spanish, Asian, Arabian, and Russian dances and instrumentations.

He senses the shift in energy before it hits him, staggering in its intensity. He reaches out to Gaby first. She is largely an observer in this act, but he can feel her turbulent discomfort. Peril, too, is affected.

The man, in fact, seems ready to explode. Solo can feel the pressure building, knows a large-scale episode can’t be far behind.

So, the American does the only thing he can do.

He drains him.

Solo begins to siphon off the excess energy and senses the relief it brings. He frowns, startled, when a flood of other people’s energies comes with it. Peril is a conduit for the audience, it seems… or else, he’s _protecting_ them.

 

* * *

 

Illya grips the railing in front of him, hands thrumming and bloodless. It is not just Gaby under attack. It is the entire collection of diplomats and dignitaries.

He can feel the shadow, stronger than anything he has ever encountered, crash like a tidal wave upon them. Seeds of discontent, enmity, and mistrust flood through him as he tunes into the targets.

 _That must be THRUSH’s plan,_ he realizes. _To ruin any hope of reparation between the East and West._

What better opportunity to provoke an international incident?

Illya exhales shakily as Solo diverts some of the energy from him. He had felt himself overheating and even using all of his tools, it might not have been enough. He taps into the sensation from the hospital: that sense of balance and purpose and peace.

He breathes deeply and lets instinct take over.

 

* * *

 

The roaring of the spotlights nearly drowns out the music and obscures her view of the audience. She can sense Illya, though, and Solo far beyond.

 _They are struggling,_ she realizes. Working together, yes, but not fully in sync. There is something missing. Or, rather, _someone._

Gaby presses her pointe shoes into the stage, her energy a lightning rod for Illya and a stabilizer for Solo. Her consciousness steadies the Russian, grounding him enough to control the flow of energy coming and going from him.

In turn, he prevents Solo from getting overloaded. What the American can’t absorb, he redirects to Gaby who transfers it to any metal or machinery she detects in the vicinity: into lights and microphones and jewelry.

There is a symmetry, a synergy to their work and, like a circuit completing, everything seems to click into place.

The attack—too much for any one person to handle—is now under control. Though it doubles and redoubles its efforts, Gaby and her team are keeping it at bay, protecting their marks and protecting each other.

During the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, the attack finally seems to relent. She sneaks a glance at Jannick beside her. His face is relaxed, betraying no evidence of strain or a struggle. If _he_ has been behind all this, he’s covering it masterfully.

Gaby settles back into character, fawning over Nora from the sidelines. She is a confectioner’s dream, exquisite in a frothy, pink tulle concoction. A tiara adorns her dark hair, twinkling with gleaming white stones.

No, not white, but clear.

 _Clear quartz,_ Gaby realizes with a sudden start. _One of the most powerful objects for amplifying energy._

Realization slides like ice down her spine. She stills the shiver it brings as she takes in the controlled grace and deceptive strength of her old friend.

 

* * *

 

After Gaby makes her final bows to rapturous applause, Illya hurries down to the stage. None other than the American himself is there to greet him. Illya nods in acknowledgement.

“Cowboy.”

“Peril. Nice of you to make an appearance.”

He holds out an elaborate bouquet of red roses—tied with the same color ribbon as Gaby had worn. “These are for you.”

Illya balks. “You… brought me flowers?”

“A little slow on the uptake tonight, aren’t we?” The man’s shoulders heave in an exaggerated sigh. “They’re not for you, _per se_ , but for a certain ravishing young ballerina.”

Illya backs away from him, shaking his head. “I can’t accept them. These are yours—”

“To _give_ as I see fit.” He grins. “Besides, I think she’d rather prefer them coming from you, don’t you think?”

Cowboy offers him the bouquet again and Illya reluctantly accepts. He stares at the fragrant blooms for a moment before undoing the ribbons and divvying up the arrangement.

“Half?”

“I think we can make it work.”

As soon as they finish tying up their new, matching bouquets, a harried-looking blond man—the Nutcracker Prince—races up to them.

“Waverly sent me,” he says, an odd note to his voice. “I need you to come with me.”

Exchanging a glance with Cowboy and feeling for the switchblade in his pocket, the two men follow after him.

 

* * *

 

Solo pulls up short when they arrive at Nora’s dressing room. He’s kept a close eye on Jannick, but even _he_ can see the flinch of betrayal when the man peers inside.

Waverly looks as debonair and unflappable as ever as he tucks his gun away: his target now being bound and restrained by Gaby. The Englishman smiles thinly when the men enter.

“Mr. Solo, Kuryakin. How like the two of you to arrive when all the excitement is over.”

Solo and Peril look between Gaby and Nora—both looking the worse for wear—and then at each other.

“And what exactly did we miss, sir?”

“A particularly inventive _pas de deux_ between our Clara here and the Sugar Plum Fairy,” Waverly says wryly.

Gaby straightens up, heavily favoring her left leg as she limps over to Waverly. Her bottom lip is split, one hand pressed against her ribs, the other grasping the cracked case of a computer disk. She offers it to him.

“Found this in her bag,” she rasps. “ I think she was going to plant it at the gala. Probably on one of the Russian attaches.”

“Let me guess,” Waverly says as he kneels before Nora. “This little disk contains plans— _Western_ plans to undermine the GDR, the Soviet Union. Would have caused quite the scandal upon its discovery.”

Nora’s face remains impassive. She inclines her head in an approximation of a shrug, but remains silent.

Waverly hums, regarding the young woman sadly. “You are gifted, Miss Sieber. There’s no denying it. You’ve an uncanny talent.” He sighs. “You could have done great things with UNCLE.”

Nora snaps at that. She fights against her restraints. “You left me here to _rot._ ” The woman turns her attention to Gaby next. “And you. _You_ get to be free. To walk away at the end of this and go _home._ You get to forget about us.”

Gaby grits her teeth, but says nothing.

“As it so happens, Miss Sieber,” Waverly interjects, “you _will_ be leaving the Iron Curtain. Tonight, in fact. You’ll be taken to our headquarters in London for questioning.”

He motions for Jannick to grab Nora’s other arm and together, they help her to her feet. The fight seems to have left her and she stands like a ragdoll between them. Waverly nods at his team.

“I will see you three at the gala.”

The trio watches as the men march Nora out of the dressing room. Solo looks over at Gaby: her eyes are stormy, staring off into the middle distance. He clears his throat.

Gaby starts and sizes them up, as if noticing them for the first time. A small smile tugs at her lips when she sees their flowers.

“You two look like bridesmaids.”

Solo chuckles, offers his bouquet to her with a sweeping bow. “For you, madam. You were _exquisite_ tonight.”

“You weren’t watching.”

“No, but _Peril_ was and I’m sure he would agree with me. Isn’t that right, Peril?”

He smirks at the Russian’s flustered and long-suffering expression. “I—I,” he begins, closing his eyes with a huff. “You did… very well.”

“High praise indeed,” Solo comments. He looks between his two partners and decides to put them out of their misery. “I’m going to go get the car. Meet me out front when you’re ready to leave.”

 

* * *

 

Illya clears his throat and offers her a hesitant smile when she looks up. His hands clench around the flowers in his hands.

_The flowers._

A heat creeps up his cheeks as he hastily extends the bouquet to her. Their hands brush as she accepts the roses and he swallows.

“You—you danced beautifully tonight,” he tells her. “As you always do.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, a teasing curve to her lips. “So, you admit to liking my _other_ dancing then.”

Illya scoffs. _“That_ is not dancing.” His expression softens. “But… yes. I do enjoy it. Sometimes.”

“You’ll have to join me sometime.” And there’s that invitation, that _challenge_ in her eyes. Vulnerability masquerading as bravery.

“I look forward to it.”

Gaby grins, her gaze dropping in a rare display of… is it _shyness?_ She runs her fingers over the crisp bow he’d tied on her flowers.

“You know, Illya,” she says, “it’s bad form to go to these types of galas alone.” An eternity seems to stretch between the moment her eyes lift to meet his and those precious words leave her lips.

“Would you be my date this evening?”

Illya nods, a wide smile spreading across his face. “On one condition.” Gaby tilts her head to the side—and what a rare and beautiful thing it is to catch her off-balance.

“You will dance with me?”

“Only if you’ll let me lead.”

Gaby hooks her arm in his, and, together, they leave the Berlin State Opera House behind.

 

* * *

 

Solo smirks as he watches his partners from across the room. Peril is surprisingly agile on the dancefloor and he’s hardly seen Gaby happier.

He takes another sip of champagne before the Englishman appears at his shoulder. The man follows his gaze to the two agents—existing in a world entirely their own. Solo stiffens, smooth words on the tip of his silver tongue, but Waverly beats him to it.

“Before you say anything, Solo, I already know it won’t be an issue.”

“Did they tell you that?”

 _“You_ did. Two Wednesdays from now.” He hums shortly. “And they’re really quite terrible at hiding it.”

Solo chuckles. “But it’s fun to see them try.”

“I won’t say anything to them if you won’t.” Waverly shrugs at the American’s questioning stare. “Some destinies,” he tells him, “are sweeter for the surprise. I wouldn’t want to take _that_ moment away from them.”

Solo nods. A new song strikes up and Gaby takes the lead. He covers his grin with his champagne flute.

“Destiny, huh?”

 

* * *

 

Snowflakes dance down from the stars as they arrive back at the chalet. It is nearing midnight on Christmas Eve.

“Don’t get too cozy, chaps,” Waverly tells them as they stamp the snow from their boots and begin shedding their coats. “We leave at oh-eight-hundred.”

Illya nods and strips off his gloves, flexing the numbed digits beneath. A fire is roaring and crackling in the hearth already, its light dancing off the hewn timbers and casting its golden, warming spell around the room.

“Get to go home for Christmas. Fancy that,” Cowboy says. He gives a pointed look to his two partners. “I hope you’ve all done your shopping.”

He starts bundling up again. “ _I,_ for one, will be spending my final night in Germany checking out the displays of a more… carnal variety.”

Gaby smirks. “Don’t stay up too late, Solo.”

“But, my dear Miss Teller,” he says solemnly, “that is _precisely_ my intention.”

With a smart wave and a surprisingly tuneful rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”, the American heads back out into the night.

Gaby laughs and shakes her head fondly. She discards her scarf and outermost sweater carelessly on the back of the well-worn sofa. Illya’s grip tightens on his own, neatly folded layers.

Catching Waverly’s eye, he quickly sets the stack of clothing and other winter accoutrement down on the low coffee table.

“You have a visitor, Kuryakin.”

Illya whirls around to see the dog sitting in the center of the room. It bows its head in greeting before rising onto its hind legs.

When Illya looks again, the dog is no dog at all. His eyes rake over the hairy, bipedal creature with the face somewhere between a man’s and a hobgoblin’s. He starts.

“It’s a—”

 _“Domovoi,”_ Waverly confirms. “I believe he’s rather taken a shine to you. And to you, Miss Teller, as well. It wouldn’t surprise me if he adopted the both of you as his new household.”

He and Gaby exchange a look.

The mechanic kneels down to be at eye-level with the _domovoi._ “You healed me, didn’t you?” A slow, respectful nod of its head.

“Thank you,” she whispers, before turning her face up to Illya’s. Their eyes meet briefly as she begins speaking in soft, lilting Russian.

_Whatever home we have is yours._

The breath catches in Illya’s throat if he is even breathing at all. The _domovoi_ bows deeply to the both of them before vanishing from sight.

Gaby rises to her feet and regards him with those fathomless dark eyes. Illya steps closer to her, the air humming electric around them.

Waverly clears his throat and the two of them jump apart.

“I will see you both in the morning,” he says archly. “Oh, and Miss Teller?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I pulled a few strings. Your former employ is now under my protection. The garage shall reopen tomorrow, the staff reunited with their families.”

Relief radiates from her small frame. “Thank you, sir.”

“It seems Miss Sieber understood that it protected you. Made you more resilient against her attack. She’s the one who alerted the _Stasi._ ”

Waverly appraises her with a swift glance. “And I agree. It _is_ good for you. We’ll have to get you a garage of your own when we get back to London. Beginning with a certain blue Volga. Solo’s told me you’re rather fond.”

Gaby huffs out a laugh. “You’ll have to thank him for me.”

Waverly nods, smiles wryly at the two agents. “Good night, Miss Teller. Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Good night, sir.”

They watch the Englishman retire down the hallway. His absence sets off a _different_ kind of tension between them now. Gaby gathers up her things, two bright spots of color high on her cheeks.

“Gaby,” he begins before a clock signals midnight. Illya frowns. That isn’t the chiming of the grandfather clock, but…

He strides over to his room, Gaby hot on his heels. She nearly collides with him when he pulls up short in the doorway.

There on his dresser is an old-fashioned cuckoo clock.

“What is that?” he hears Gaby ask from somewhere behind his shoulder.

Illya huffs, alternately cursing and blessing the Englishman who must have gone back sometime to purchase it.

“It’s your… it’s your Christmas present.”

“No,” she says, wriggling past him. His heart jackhammers in his throat, until Gaby points at something just above his head.

“Mistletoe,” they say together.

“Our _domovoi?”_

“Or Cowboy.” Illya hesitates, hands grasping at nothing at his sides. “It’s silly tradition. We don’t have to—”

The rest is lost to the soft press of her mouth. Gaby’s lips are warm against his and then gone all too soon. She steps away from him, ducking her head as a flush blooms over her skin. She huffs softly.

“Merry Christmas, Illya.”

He reaches out for her then: one hand warming the small of her back, the other cups her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her eyes are bright, lips slightly parted, and he has never seen anything so beautiful.

“Merry Christmas, Gaby.”

He smiles down at her before pulling her in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very gentle reminder to please support your fic writers! Your comments truly, truly are gifts and all of us LOVE hearing from you. Thank you for helping spread the love. :)
> 
> Thank You and Happy Holidays!


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